{"id":16108,"date":"2019-01-18T15:20:46","date_gmt":"2019-01-18T21:20:46","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/www.lavenderink.org\/site\/?post_type=product&p=16108"},"modified":"2026-01-18T15:39:52","modified_gmt":"2026-01-18T21:39:52","slug":"my-id","status":"publish","type":"product","link":"https:\/\/www.lavenderink.org\/site\/shop\/my-id\/","title":{"rendered":"My ID"},"content":{"rendered":"

Bill Lavender<\/a><\/h2>\n

My ID<\/i><\/h2>\n

9781609643522 (pbk.) (BlazeVOX)<\/p>\n

<\/span><\/p>\n

140 pages: $19.95
\n2019<\/p>\n

\n

Bill Lavender’s\u00a0My ID,<\/em> published by BlazeVOX in 2019, continues his investigation into questions of identity and language, with the additional element of politics.<\/em><\/p>\n

\n

Praise for My ID<\/i><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Life happened before it was over. Then there is the sorting out that empties into overlaid panes, mind\u2019s planets, which Bill Lavender navigates in My ID<\/i> with consummate \u00e9lan and a strong dose of \u201cimpolite, unpolitic\u201d dissent.<\/p>\n

\u2014Charles Bernstein, author of Near\/Miss<\/i><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Bill Lavender\u2019s My ID<\/i> traverses a terrain that is at once grounded in the details of an individual life and the collective unconscious, where we cannot always tell if we wake or sleep. <\/i>Is it an ironic fact that our lives are defined from first to last by Social Security IDs? as the title poem\u2014breath-taking in its condensatory scope\u2014recounts. Koan-like in its dance with the id, as another poem muses: \u201ctry to tell the simple truth\/ and the repressed slips \/out in the accident.\u201d <\/i>Lavender is both erudite and nonchalant, and that\u2019s a potent blend. <\/i>It is a rare pleasure to read poems of such frank and capacious vision, encompassing meditations on mortality (that final exile, \u201cthe dream from which I will not awaken\u201d), the aesthetic death of the author (\u201cI can say I but \/ I can [also] disappear\u201d), and the etymology of Police (the tour de force chapbook which closes the volume). Like the carpenter he once was, with My ID<\/i> Lavender nails it. <\/i><\/p>\n

\u2014Cynthia Hogue, author of In June the Labyrinth<\/i><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

The subject of My ID<\/i> is self-sameness and difference: identity (responsive, shifting, and interdependant) and passage, and to read this book is to ride (as passenger) in a state of balanced satisfaction and saudade<\/i>. \u201cLike Baudelaire,\u201d Bill Lavender tells us, \u201cI was homesick \/ for places I had never been.\u201d The beauty of this lucid and loving collection is in the fact that the author is at once at home in the world and also a stranger\u2014an eager, hungry traveler\u2014at home. My ID<\/i> is both poetry and criticism, an extended elegy and a celebration, and a wonderful way to go deep into the world that\u2019s changing around us, moment by moment: where, \u201cEven the \u2018born and raised\u2019 are refugees.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u2014Laura Mullen, author of Complicated Grief<\/i><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

In My ID<\/i> Bill Lavender engages and deconstructs the confessional as political act, religious gesture and literary subgenre, all three dovetailing into the Foucault-Derrida-esque essay-poem \u201cLa Police.\u201d The overall effect is symphonic\u2014each poem gradually builds toward the epic ruminations of \u201cTui: An Elegy\u201d before leveling off at the philosophical meditations \u201cOf Dreaming\u201d and \u201cOf Sighing.\u201d My ID<\/i> is, in the end, a memoir in verse: elegant, wise and enthralling.<\/p>\n

\u2014Tyrone Williams, author of As Iz<\/i><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

In the name of our precious identity, our supposed to right to privacy, we rankle at the degree to which life is policed. Lavender\u2019s poetry explores the antagonisms between the \u201cid\u201d and the ID\u2019s which we carry in our wallets. The \u201cid\u201d in its most visceral form emerges, for instance, in tending to the very messy death agonies of a family dog whom one loves with sublime empathy. The \u201cid\u201d and the ID, which is the identity issued by employment, city or state, Olson\u2019s polis, are misaligned in so many senses. It is difficult to make a synthesis that can be identified as \u201cmy.\u201d Lavender probes the liminal spaces between these very different conceptions of what it is to be human, using a supple narrative line, whose pauses and clipped rhythms instruct the reader in how to read and indeed how to feel human. The images and narratives that populate these poems are drawn from a trove of memories or recurring dreams that have obsessed the poet. The materials embody narrative and historical synchronicities, spanning swimming off Grand Isle near New Orleans and camping in Galicia. My ID<\/i> is a serial poem composed of fragments of pilgrimage and rants at the ways in which our nominal lives as citizens have become empty of meaning, despite efforts to find a natural or human balance. Vide the number of times that the poet projects his nude body or intoxicated reveries upon the reader\u2019s consciousness. My ID<\/i> is compelling reading and will leave you hungry for more glimpses of Lavender\u2019s life and thought.<\/p>\n

\u2014Donald Wellman, author of Essay Poems<\/i><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Bill Lavender\u2019s ID has never been better defined, though there\u2019s some shape-shifting here. Like his other masterwork, Memory Wing, this is a story of identity\u2019s quest and chimaera, but this version also invokes the lame quiddity of its artifacts. While the former work winged over the arc of a life, My ID<\/i> swims; the river-course of time includes more of the present, more of the quotidian. Sensitivity to animals, to Spanish pueblos, and to other writers wends its own course that bends the speaker\u2019s identity. Where next? we ask one of our finest writers. I\u2019ll be along for the ride.<\/p>\n

\u2014Peter Thompson, author of Winter Light<\/i><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

When one refuses to sell out to metaphysical totality mongering, an appetite for the world as it comes to us\u2014not as it should be\u2014begins to grow. Out of this hunger (not a \u201cyearning\u201d nor \u201chope\u201d), the perplexity of being a civil among civils, becomes a strength, a ground-clearing series of moments from which a refreshed politic asserts itself. Bill Lavender\u2019s My ID<\/i> houses a metric half ton of such cleared-eyed moments. Here are gritty reflections on his life, his city, his region, and globe. Here the purpose of literature is fished out by chance and persistence, not by \u201cmethod\u201d or \u201ctheory.\u201d Here notions of human equanimity, is sensibly pursued as work, common work. My ID<\/i> is crack of dawn poetry. What\u2019s on your workbench? <\/i><\/p>\n

\u2014Rodrigo Toscano, author of Explosion Rocks Springfield<\/i><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

The world of Bill Lavender\u2019s My ID<\/i> is a world of multitudes, of multiplicity, of multiplication. It is a world intensively and intensely described and identified, a world lived, dreamed, imagined, erased, embraced. Critiques of capital, critiques of poetry, critiques of the universal, of the specific. Memories of love, lovers, of deaths, lives, of birth, rebirth. It is so deeply-felt, even at its most casual moments, the reader is not so much invited in as absorbed. \u201cthe world is our desire\/reflected we are\/responsible for what\/happens in the world\/as we are for what happens\/in our dreams.\u201d And: \u201cWhy must I write? Because not to is to be a tourist.\u201d Here is poetry written that demands we enter and breathe.<\/p>\n

\u2014Mark Statman, author of Exile Home<\/i><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

It is high time to recognize Bill Lavender for the great writer he is, and this book, My ID<\/i>, may very well be the book to do so. <\/i>Perhaps being known as an extraordinary publisher, festival (co)organizer, construction manager, builder, low residency & study abroad developer, and rock \u2018n\u2019 roll musician has obscured Bill\u2019s surpassing excellence as a writer\u2014and stay tuned for the release of his three-novel series. My ID<\/i> manages to blend beautifully Bill\u2019s conceptual inventiveness and political-philosophical insights with great, compelling storytelling. <\/i>Time for us all to sit down, listen, read, & take notice. Damn right!<\/p>\n

\u2014Hank Lazer, author of Slowly Becoming Awake<\/i><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

In My ID<\/i> Bill Lavender exhibits his Proustian aesthetic of weaving the reader into the poem\u2019s nexus via a series of doors opening deep into memory and its nuances. Whether actual identification cards, chickens or Freud\u2019s couch, Lavender can take any subject and continue to open it up like a nesting doll, each image varied just enough to cause the reader to adjust to scale. And as you travel along these turns and swerves in the lines, take care: For Lavender\u2019s path can suddenly reach swiftly into your heart space churning up the energy of what it means to really peer into life, as seeing and attention are forms of love.<\/p>\n

\u2014Megan Burns, author of Basic Programming<\/i><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Everyone has a repertoire of defenses against actually reading a book of poetry. But open Bill Lavender\u2019s My ID<\/i> anyway. I guarantee you will be irrevocably glad you did. You might even be delighted, as I was, by various things on every page. Lavender does not play word games, exactly, but rather opens himself up, in a very straightforward way, to the tang and immediacy of ordinary life. He merges with it by means of a clear-eyed testimony, filled with irony and heart. And then the deep humor rises naturally from a Whitman-like care for seeming humdrum details, which turn out to be glowing with mysterious human light.<\/p>\n

\u2014Henry Gould, author of In RI<\/i><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

My ID, by Bill Lavender (2019)
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