Tag Archives: Poetry

Anne Waldman

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Ariel in Minor Mode

—for Peter Lamborn Wilson

i would be hidden
and have made myself

mad,

come after

impure

godiva

naked in heart, a last scene

i’ll rest, activate

liberated from a pine tree
Sycorax, call on you
invoke
mother witch-son

cursed brilliant sly Caliban

haunts all premises now
ally

break free, radiant thot waves

of this, our patriarch,

your Daddy

revoke, it’s time. it’s beyond, & before

let’s look into “future memory”

lest we never forget

ghost masters’ whip

& love of outcast (poet) that is

inner

voice

consciousness, who made us
better

what you gave me characters
a play

of pride

nakedness, magick herbs

a temporary autonomous zone

purpose

my father’s home
from Nazi war as
advance
man sees scorched bodies

lift to putrid heaven

this, certain, the clues we
children

smart of

weep of we, girls, women, we votives

and you cut

short,
dilemma

raging “we” envy ariel messenger

& the world continues

its supremacy
we must kill, defeat
still the wrench of, cut cut

limb of devil tree

your lines in poetry
tell, tell

come to senses in sanity
my hag struggle

age

of

event

horizon

das

capital…

Ariel slips out of

noose

swift foot sprite

a dream a

buried book
takes

notes in.

Anne Waldman is the author of more than 60 books, including Fast Speaking Woman, Bard, Kinetic, Trickster Feminism, and Mesopotamia, as well as book-length poetic works including Marriage: A Sentence, Manatee/Humanity, and The Iovis Trilogy. A founder and director of the Poetry Project, she was a co-founder of the Jack Kerouac School of Disembodied Poetics at Naropa University, where she is a Distinguished Professor of Poetics. She has created countless interdisciplinary collaborations and performances and is the subject of the current experimental film, Outrider. Waldman served for six years as a Chancellor of The Academy of American Poets and has been awarded the Before Columbus Foundation Lifetime Achievement Award, American Book Award’s Lifetime Achievement Award, a Guggenheim Fellowship, and the Poetry Society of America’s Shelley Memorial Award.
Peter Lamborn Wilson (October 20, 1945 – May 22, 2022) was an American anarchist author and poet, known for his concept of Temporary Autonomous Zones.

Alexandria Peary

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Ancestral Cloud

(After Kenneth Koch)

A cloud covered in numbered windows
just sailed past, green shutters mostly closed,
like a nativity calendar the first week of December
on a kitchen wall in a tattooed building in Pforzheim.

In its celestial wake,
the larger navigating cloud steered by a stick of a sailor,
a huge tanker of a hotel in the Bay of Naples, in Venice.
It hasn’t been in port for years.

But look! An angel with a dot matrix blush,
tilting its face, jousts past,
is on a blind date with a cirrus! Nimbostratus! Father!
Rain cloud

Morning Glory

A slice of 3-tiered building on a plate.
Tilted balconies on a rococo fondant
afternoon pink baroque neo-classical yellow
evening, ordinary brick municipal in winter,
Prague, Vienna, Berlin, Madrid,
or Boston topped with New Orleans
humidity and chilled skies of Nashua,
BAKERY and Rental Office taped
near the awning of the margin.

Can I have a two-bedroom, thanks.
Nasturtiums, not geraniums in windows,
a baby grand piano in the parlor,
bookshelves with ideas of mechanical precision,
clouds of dream filling the rooms?
until the next person in line orders the Sackler torte:

a man facing the sky is turning blue
on a dirty blanket on the sidewalk
as the hairstylists gather, someone makes the Call.

Groundcover

You use too much detail, apparently, and have been told to not manspread over the ground though you are not a man but a woman, though you notice that others, specifically men, take up acres of paragraphs and stanzas of mulch, case in point, that gardener holding a hose at waist level is overwatering the other flowering plants with you’re such a good listener, I’ve been talking too much, but let me just add, despite that he’s been allotted fourteen acres already for his baby-blue and baby-pink splatters in this rotting violent cruel immoral hateful polluted unhealthy unkind unjust wasteful world in every headline, and because it’s clear you won’t stop, you’re still covering so much ground, the manager with a clipboard at waist level steps in with orders to “Prune clauses, Karen” and he calls you Karen / though / that is not / your name and he barks “Is the thermostat turned up too high in the greenhouse? Because you seem angry, and that’s not good for the nursery” and he has to yell “Speak in gentle, barely audible mists!” because you’re not paying attention to him since he’s no longer relevant to the conversation and instead you observe how in this rotting violent cruel immoral hateful polluted unhealthy unkind unjust wasteful world your lists of detail have been upcycled as trellises and on the trellises bloom fists, we are everywhere, we are the center of the universe, we made you, we are primary and you secondary, we are reconsidering why we made you, what the world needs now is toxic femininity, a kind of weed killer

Paradise

what do the scroll of clouds say
-their changing shapes
over fortune road

a scroll of clouds
when our days were horses
in a horse-shaped morning
before a drapery of trees

the mare, foals, the stallion
everyone had a parent

a barn with stalls, a home to return to
a gas station, a general store
with curtains in the window
a brook that drowned no one

drapes that close
drapes that open

curtains that close
curtains that open

the world is changing
like a scroll of clouds
a manuscript of weather

Alexandria Peary served as New Hampshire Poet Laureate from 2019 to 2024. She is the recipient of an Academy of American Poets Laureate Fellowship, the Iowa Poetry Prize, and a 2024-2025 Fulbright to write and research two books in Germany.

Laura Mullen

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Could Be

In Ventura, listening to live jazz?
Could be (I am now) in a brewery
In Santa Barbara; could be happy,
Could be tired. Could be listening
To the overcast as if it were music—
Which it is; listening to the flavor
Of a beer as if it were sharp, slightly
Fizzy music, which it is. Could be,
With a quick glance into the pram
As a couple rolls it past me, listening
To a baby’s scrunched-up, gently
Jostled sleep face as if it were music—
An old/new song called “Easy Quiet,”
Called “Nothing To Do” or “Saturday
Afternoon.” Tuning in to the chamber
Opera of conversation, improvisational
Solos played all at the same time and
Somehow synchronized: performers
I’ll never know, scattered at small tables,
Quartets, couples (hurdy-gurdy and oboe)
Working on intimate arrangements, casual,
Resonant, forgettable. Could be writing
This, listening to myself: inescapable
And mostly not beautiful—poet vocalist
Part genie in a bottle, part bumbling
Bee bzzt bzzt at the mysterious clear
Barrier, some shut window. Could be
Composing this for you, here, try these
Notes; could be (a ghost) listening to
Someone sounding it out, this air, years
From now. Could be there’s percussion
I couldn’t have imagined, the program
Should include the name of the dog
Who made (just at this moment) that brief
Snappy riff, staccato, of joking, pretend-
Fierce, remarks; luckily I was recording
An afternoon at the nearest place to get
A beer after my expensive hardware store
Visit (the failure to find recycled plastic
Garbage bags is music—where does it go, once
You’ve heard it?); the busboy changing out
The empty gas canister in the “Lava Heat”
Outdoor furnace is a cello, the waiter with
A tray of burgers, trombone: distribute
Instruments among the crowd however
You like; could be listening to this day,
Unrepeatable, as though I paid for it, as if
I waited years for this performance. What
An incredible seat I had, how (mostly)
Wonderful the acoustics—okay, lots of
Coughing and sneezing, and people trying
Out crinkly candy wrappers like toy pianos,
Ridiculous ringtones, hissed apologies, so
Many bitterly sour notes, but wasn’t I lucky
To be in the ensemble, anyway: to be able
To appreciate, sometimes shape, our ongoing
Song—earsplitting, then suddenly inaudible.

Maritime Forest (the Live Oaks)

Green trees greeting the storm’s start
What shapes you take reaching toward never
Touching one another in this stilled instant

Of ongoing dance I trace your lines to learn
How to venture from a central support
Rooted in and rising away from the earth

Because I need to know how to explore
This ocean air and grow always more open
Accepting what is while bearing

The heavy desire for what might yet
Come to be formed as we are by forces
Seen and unseen twisted by occult despairs

Lifted by encouragements confessed
As this body moves among other bodies
Let me do my absolute unremarkable best

Naturally as any other rough lichen-
Splashed fragile instance of life
Let me grow out from my heart

Like a ripple from a drop of rain
In a widening wood among my kind
A part of the forest celebrating

And mourning this lively peace
Of new and ancient growth let us
From rock-snared sand rise to anchor

That shifting stuff lifting a canopy
To shelter our loves on the edge
Of each barrier island exposed

To high waves and the hard
Rush of the wind’s salt

Laura Mullen is the author of nine books—her most recent collection, EtC, was published in 2023. Her translation of Véronique Pittolo’s Hero was published by Black Square Editions and her translation of Stéphanie Chaillou’s first book (something happens) was published by Lavender Ink / Diálogos in 2025. She lives in California.

rob mclennan

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from dream logic

 

012   :   “For violence it laid itself open to defeat by the Western barbarians.”

 

Must be said again, everything. Keep your radios on. For further announcements.

 

019   :   “an unlimited sense of the field”

 

Where there is dissonance, resonance. Where

there is nakedness. Where there is agency. Marco Polo,

his hands worn. The silk road. Where

there is blessing, a kindred act. A capacity

for seeing. Where             one might count

pilgrims, a number            both empty

and endless. The path             not taken,

offered. Where one might field            a purpose

of safety, the gulls. Borders             , flounder

, within. I am             too honest, perhaps. A cruelty

of lines, drawn. Where             there is context,

heavy, on the limbs. Where

there is nothing             but flame.

 

020   :   “about the author”

 

Sunday’s child is full of grace. He was born, they say. As they say. Ripped, from the roots. Whether an object or an idea or a solar eclipse. In the morning, how he was born, he was born. At the dawn of the 1970s, a veil of red through a thousand unwritten lyrics. On the Ides of March, a quarter after the hour, eight. Sunday’s child, is bonny and blithe. It took time, how we sped from place to place. How we stand in full view of history, the marshland. Hintonburg, as once a village. He was born on land, they say, full view of the waves. Full view of this hospital room, full view of Wellington Street. A dawn, encased in amber, somber hands. Something about a story, short and long. To our mythologizing. Pre-cambrian dust, to be free of one’s work. A sandbar, in history’s low tide. This is not a full biography, mine. The flesh of an hour, and how swift one flies. The sound of a step, or a final stop.

 

021   :   “Smaller Mercies”

 

On this plain

Occupied, these chances

Familiar as lines

In the way

Just a short

Step, past is

Present, and always

Are the first

To break gaze

One eye fixed

How we speed

As corrupt, clear

You can trace

Heart, your hand

As swift as

A muscle

 

022   :   “A Wall of Solid Air”

 

At night the children would paint the surface with crayons, acrylic. They had already lost more birds than the skies could afford.

 

rob mclennan lives in Ottawa, where he is current Artistic Director of VERSeFest: Ottawa’s International Poetry Festival, and has run above/ground press since it began in July, 1993. His most recent poetry titles include the book of sentences (University of Calgary Press, 2025) and the forthcoming edgeless (Caitlin Press, 2026). You can find him at https://robmclennan.substack.com/

Alice Letowt

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Bouldering as Forgiveness

Sky puts down roots
washing dishes in a white
bathrobe before bed.

Finished, she uncovers
a clean kitchen:
a car driving in
-to a thunderstorm.

The table needs to be cleared;
next to a pink rose bush,
abandon uses ivy
as molding on a house in Arkansas.

Redress clouds
folding them in with the hills,
highway medians
into meadows.

Move in Place

but no: there isn’t an anchor anywhere.
—William Bronk

Look!              The light moves
along the banister. I stop
To catch the gesture, and
I am in a skylit chapel.
The walls are a pigeon’s neck.
The variance in color is:
leaves sun-red
the mica on the beach
pine trees darker than the sky
oil on water
upon the surface to make
a line of streetlights. Oh no.
I don’t know what it means. Oh no. My eyes
flutter to the sound of someone on the phone.

Stopping to pee in the desert

Too late to live for utopia
We weren’t ourselves climbing

Along a child-drawn ridge
Ben and i’s torn-up hands         grasping at the wall

The rocks         rolling away
Reminding         there is no one place we belong

Too late to live for utopia

And the sky is a mauve cloth backdrop
Rippling in the wind

Each point of contact is its own beginning
Out here there is nothing at the end of headlights

Please, when all this is picturesque
Ruins, ignore our bones

Late to utopia
The clothes are left on the line

Kept in Kaleidoscope

The chorus of creeks
The shore of a beach
Where the water reaches
An inconstant horizon measured
In sky sublimating         above
The road         light giving
Statues of angels turning
Out pockets         filled with rocks
Transience
settles into the turn

wet in morning
Lilac         summer crickets
A change in color
And        I am         the first
One up
Branches spinning blue
Birds in the parking lot
Jeans on the beach
Socks on the sand
sand on the car floor turned

Out on mossy
Pavement
The tree’s leaves in autumn
On summer feet
Framed by a window
My mom sees me
Go into the woods
Not knowing she’s watching
Into beauty I turn

My mom
Leaves the window
And now her father is dying
I tell the river
We are here making ends and
The wintering tree scatters sun
Says goodbye without a kiss
I wake up for the sunset
Feet swinging from a fallen tree
Seeing a person through their dirty glasses
River out of focus
Among reeds
Each distinct and perhaps
To a bird from above
The river is a body turning

//

And in conversation with Ben
We agree that you can’t become I
If no one is listening and
No one is hearing
The surfaces on souls
In all the potentiality of metaphor
A vulture         in an angel’s ladder
Waves braking around
Ben’s body solid
In sunlight
We attempt restoration
Of forms         and becoming
Among ruins
The last word said
The unshaven hair
On both of our faces
Comparisons collapse
And reach for the shade
There may be something
To which the dead goldfinch on the patio
Reflects         and

//

A simple acceptance
That things are same and not same
And
Open the door         moon
Rising and I feel the earth         turning

To Ezra         a leaf rising
To rest on my shoulder
Moon shouldered on the mountain

Words give weight to the pale
Hazy spring sky
That those are the waves breaking
Around Ben’s body
and in my stomach I
Am the old white mustang
Crashed into ditch median
I don’t love you anymore
Can’t be true

Again cold spring
Last frost
Cherry trees pink
Ben and I are in a field of windmills
Each a center
No inherent value makes the color
Blue held in a slant of light
An after image of a lover
Seen in a half-smile
And having confused change for something

Alice Letowt likes azaleas. Her work can be found in Seneca Review, Interim, Thrush, Rougarou, and Bad Lineage.

Hank Lazer

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the once particular                      12.23.2024
atom you were
i that i
that meticulously crafted
thing that i
that i all
along believed i
was tide laps
the shore at
the old eroded
beach that i
that i played
on as a
child space made
for others to
imagine being themselves
important & central
in a momentary
story walls &
quiet tides arriving

 

what are you                               12.29.2024
protecting there is
light in the
world the light
is the world
as you know
in your body’s
life let there
be light each
morning a perfect
occurrence space empty
space between closely
placed stones each
of us adjacent
to what if
we could see
it this arising
& quiet transformation
after an evening
storm sunlight &
tree shadows mind

 

his last word                               12.10.2024
was not a
word burrowed as
he was into
a well-made silence
hers was a
word blurted &
screamed MA MA
shouldn’t you go
out with a
word mass of
said & thought
snail trail of
thinking glistering for
ward slowly broken
speech a whisper
a nod what
word is boat
to go across
when mind returns
to its composite
elements

 

These poems are from the 7th section (Three Is A) of my forthcoming 37th book of poetry, The Silver Bowl Is Filled with Snow (Dos Madres Press). The poems in that section of the book are all composed of three words per line. The overall book is really a series of discovered or invented or asked-of-me (by?) forms, ranging from the long sentence-like lines in the 2nd section of the book (Enlarging Upon) to these compressed, colliding three-word-per-line poems. To a large degree, the various forms or procedures in the book come from a felt sense of what a page might look like when written in this manner. So, too, the Three Is A section of the book leans heavily on the initiating sounds (and sound collisions or twists of syntax) that got my attention (and became the longest, most sustained section of the book). It’s all about going where the juice is, where the current is, until it’s not.
Hank Lazer has published thirty-six books of poetry, including most recently Abundant Life: New & Selected Poems (Chax Press), As We Vanish from Public View (7 Points Press), and field recordings     of mind     in morning (BlazeVOX, with 15 music-poetry tracks with Holland Hopson on banjo – available on YouTube). In 2025, Lavender Ink published What Were You Thinking: Essays 2006-2024. To order books, learn about talks, readings, and workshops, and see photos of Duncan Farm see Lazer’s website.

Genevieve Kaplan

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The week to share something soft

it’s my turn
to deliver a soft object
and make the team           smile

my back           chills where it leans
against the wall

I hear the switch
in the other room
the sniff beyond the hallway
that is the spine

I prepare to convey
the need           for the soft thing

with the other voices
too much in mind           naysaying
or second guessing when I
am still first-thinking

what is a key, I wonder           and then
what is the field

if I were to point
at the sink in the breakroom, I’d forget
to ask           what makes it fill, what invites
spillover, and worry

who I am, why I might
draw attention to
the silverware drawer           the pocket
door

and penciling           as feminist act, just one
of many dry varieties of grass

I store such fragments
in the cloud           which had been floating along
just fine until
the screen darkened
unexpectedly

Winde leges

a murmuration, a bird
is a sound in the outdoors           on the prairie
wings startle to move the wind and—with other rushes and darts of air—create
a hum
both tangible and daunting           the egg
—the idea of the egg—
builds expectation
scaly legs
tease bits of eggshell
like a xylophone or ratchet
music as dangerous as           gravity’s
feathers

nowhere
do we say the eggshell breaks, though one example is
“to form a cover over: ‘The grass covered the grave’”           without

fragility—there’s a body down there—and harmony
both damp (green, wet, natural)           and ominous (loss)
the egg
is hatched

Saturation

I ask the napkin: will you
miss me when I’ve gone
have you seen my face, how it
sheens red with satisfaction, pink
in agony. At the breakfast table
lunch table, dinner table
I am inspired to be
enchantment.
From my perspective
even the gray path leading
up from the south
across the dry brush
carries a fresh look.
My chair holds me just so:
four legs on the floor supporting
my legs, my arms acting
for its absent arms.
My imagination extends
to the second story
the fourth story, the roof.
Hold me, I say, delight me
you’re exquisite.

Genevieve Kaplan (she/her) is the author of (aviary) (Veliz Books); In the ice house (Red Hen Press); and five chapbooks, most recently Felines, which sounds like feelings (above/ground). Recent work can be found in Indefinite Space, Action, Spectacle, Word For/Word, and The Laurel Review. Genevieve lives in southern California where she edits the Toad Press International chapbook series, publishing contemporary translations of poetry and prose.

Caroline Kanner

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Night Sky White

The neighbor rigged the flag rigid
so even windless it stands at attention.
To void wind—noise of a worm on the lawn—
to plant turf in a desert.
Small white flies buzz over the scene.
Somewhere we aren’t, we could see
all the layers of stars all the way back.

Simple Machines

The cat is everywhere, chasing a blue plastic spring
across the floor. He paws at it, retreats behind a shoe,
suspends his disbelief and vaults back toward it,
sending the spring skittering
and skittering after it. Little panting sound
from the exertion of hunting.
The Wikipedia page for suspension of disbelief
says Coleridge coined it; I wonder what he imagined. A theater
of people, faces glowing from the light of the stage.
Then something happens. A chandelier flickers,
something in the mind is hoisted upwards,
as if hooked to a pulley system. Not like trust; like
yielding. The curtains open
on a blue that doesn’t usually exist.

Routine

Push the wine away from the table ledge
in case overnight there is an earthquake.
This is how I anticipate the night.
But all that really happens is I see birds
in immaculate color, birds I’ve never seen before
and scramble all night to identify, rose-colored birds
nesting in roses, monster bird clamping its beak
over my foot—hardly able to believe
it’s real life and not a dream—
birds with letters or fingers for feathers.
Then, steadily, morning: rain all over the windows,
wine placid in the glass in the center of the table
where I left it. And the birds where I left them
in the roses.

Ars Poetica

Hans, who is a poet, pointed
At the tree trunk. Covered with eyes
And, beneath each, little ripples in the bark
Like sound waves, he said.
I told him he should write about it.
I know, he said, but how?

Caroline Kanner is a writer and teacher from California. She has poems in or forthcoming from Denver Quarterly, Bat City Review, Peripheries, and Action, Spectacle, as well as the math textbook Fractal Worlds: Grown, Built, and Imagined. She co-founded and edits Some Creek Press (somecreekpress.net).

Bai Juyi, trans. Jaime Robles

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Two Poems

Translated by Jaime Robles with Ma Chengyu; video by Jaime Robles

 

Bai Juyi (白居易; 772–846), courtesy name Letian (樂天), was a musician, poet, and politician during the mid-Tang dynasty. A successful politician who governed three states during his long career, he was known for an accessible, near vernacular style that was popular throughout medieval East Asia. He was a practitioner of Chan Buddhism. In 832, Bai Juyi repaired an unused part of the Xiangshan Monastery, about seven miles south of Luoyang. He then moved to this location, where he spent the last fourteen years of his life. While living there, he referred to himself as the “Hermit of Xiangshan.”
Jaime Robles is a writer and visual artist. Her artist’s books are housed at the University of California, Berkeley; Yale University; and the Oulipo Archive in Paris, among others. She has two collections published by Shearsman Books (UK), Anime Animus Anima and Hoard, and has been published by many journals, including Conjunctions, Black Sun Lit, New American Writing and Shearsman. On her Substack page, she publishes her thoughts on poetry, art, witches and girl troubadours.
Ma Chengyu studied in Europe and the United States. She currently teaches Chinese and studies guqin. She lives in Shenzhen, China.

Heikki Huotari

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Template 2

Silence, if it has a magnitude, has a direction. In the mirror image of my mirror image I was made. Another day another litmus test, if I’m not pink I’m blue and blue only for you.

Consider the tectonic plates as yet unnamed, the tentacles as yet untwisted in their conduits of cloth, the vertigo of worship and arousal, the subconsciousness to amortize the savoir-faire.

The perpetrators of refraction populate a prism. Two constituents may share a chair. As one is just and one is merciful I’m timing my arrival. A soupcon of angst enlivens a dark day. To never bubble up one doubles down on thou-shalt-not.

My hero’s a generic patriot. An orbit goes elliptical due to a lazy eye. Without a dispensation there’d be no betrothal. Football, tenure and promotion lifted me and placed me on a post then, laughing, drove away. All arms and legs,

I’m swimming in the air. A walking null hypothesis, my road is long and winding, short and winding, long and straight or short and straight. That’s one small step for one great ape. The null hypothesis says nothing can be done.

Template 3

Forgive them for they are amused but know it not. Their cartilage connected to their ligament, their camouflage connected to their testament, they may not get the message or may not repent in time.

But on a scale of one to ten, how stable is the equilibrium? Knowing, we’d be velociraptors even in our sleep. On hearing that the signal to noise ratio has been trending down, what real or artificial heart would skip no beat?

As in a church that took three hundred years to build, as those three hundred years can’t be brought back, as God without my guidance can’t but stray, the innocent bystander and the butterfly affect each other and the spinning lily stands alone, i.e., apart, i.e.,

the lily finally has it all. Now nature disdains both high and low pressure. Each such creature, each such übermensch is either not invented yet or out to pasture. Which came first, the cosmos? No extraterrestrials are harmed. I’m one of three creatives waiting

to be lauded. When I see a Gulf-of-Mexico sized crater, I’ll know there’s a crater maker. On removing the removable discontinuity, I’m driving through the twilight to the night. I’m not a placeholder, is just what we expect a placeholder to say.

Template 4

I’ve identified the flying object, now what, what, what’s that in horses’ hands, what’s that in tinkers’ damns, what’s that in sinners’ angry tears. The pixilation averages the twisted bits and dear.

It’s not prehensile so it’s not my atavism and my null hypothesis is, it’s the fall. It’s at a saddle point I’ll minimize my loss and maximize my gain. I’ll emulate the incidental attributes of influencers fluently.

I’ll double-clutch to Doppler shift and grind no gears. The purity of the experience will not be dulled. Spontaneous combustion presupposes a spontaneous combustor, a spontaneous combustor of sound mind.

A universe for every big bang, every big bang in its universe, pursuant to peace treaties my position relative to certain entities is fixed. If it’s not charity when I vend pencils, a ray emanates as from a non-binary star.

It must have been at midnight when the power went out or so the clock says when the clock says I’m alive. The butterfly will see me now. The butterfly will see me now, it’s only been two thousand years.

Heikki Huotari wrote his first poem the morning after the major died in the adjacent bed. Since retiring from academia/mathematics he has published more than 500 poems in literary journals, including Pleiades, Florida Review and The Journal, and in six chapbooks and six collections. He has won one book prize (Star 82 Press) and two chapbook prizes (Gambling The Aisle and Survision Press). His Erdős number is two.