"When I was twelve years old, my brother would ask me to help him around his studio, to do things for him. That’s when I began to paint and make my own art using his things until the day told me, “Akassa, you use too much paint. You need to find your own paint.”
One hundred years later, D. B. Tompsett is playing tennis with his net down on the Idaho plain; the only poet I know who can animate a desert outhouse, give her a paramour and communicate that pathos. Dan understands the temperament of a desert, for one. His job is agriculture and plant life. All the while, he moves in and out of reveries, a working man's surrealist: A cricket couple are hunted by dogs in a cornfield; the dogs grow bored of the chase; butterfly wings turned to toast; their bodies, small sausages; and he asks, already knowing the answer, which way do pumpkins really point?