I am reading a funny mix:   A few sunny minutes ago I finished Robert Walser’s The Walk.  I love the patient inward nature and fluctuating mood, the disgustedness and abundant, meticulous appreciation of what Walser’s walker thinks and sees.   Am in the midst of Woolf’s The Waves again and transfixed, grateful for the delirium; she is always humbling and invigorating to read, and I’ve decided not to worry if she shows up in my work, as she does, no matter; I can’t resist, why resist, the best resistance is to read nothing at all.   Closer to home in recent weeks, I finished Jeff Parker’s Ovenman, a smart, funny, tawdry romp set in the tattoo parlors and skate parks and pizza joints of Gainesville, FL, a place I know and sort of love.  And Scott McLanahan’s unrelenting Hill William, beautifully published by Tyrant Books, a narrative engulfed by the devastation of rural West Virginia—poverty and wantonness and mountains being blasted to hills.   I tend to save reading poems for dusk—some Neruda, and Christian Hawkey’s surprising and eloquent The Book of Funnels.