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b"How do you pronounce \\u201cSan Gorgonio,\\u201d Slushies? How do you say \\u201cSchuylkill?\\u201d We talk regional accents, local knowledge, and artistic craft-- from the risks of the pathetic fallacy to the unknowability of metaphor, the art of ambiguity, and, of course, the golden shovel. Join us for an episode devoted to poems by Marko Capoferri where we discuss poetic craft, resonant symbols, and the peculiar power of telephone poles.\\xa0\\nWhat can\\u2019t you pronounce where you live?\\xa0\\n\\xa0\\nLinks to things we discuss that you may dig:\\xa0\\xa0\\nEula Biss\\u2019s \\u201cTime and Distance Overcome\\u201d\\xa0\\nJennifer L. Knox\\u2019s \\u201cIrwin Allen Vs. The Lion Tamer\\u201d\\xa0\\n\\xa0\\nAt the table: Katheleen Volk Miller, Marion Wrenn, Jason Schneiderman, Samantha Neugebauer, Larissa Morgano & Kate Wagner\\xa0\\n\\xa0\\n\\xa0\\nThis episode is brought to you by one of our sponsors, Wilbur Records, who kindly introduced us to the artist is A.M.Mills whose song \\u201cSpaghetti with Loretta\\u201d now opens our show.\\xa0\\xa0\\n\\xa0\\nMarko Capoferri has lived and worked in eight US states, including Montana, where he currently resides. He is an incoming MFA candidate at the University of Montana in Missoula. He is desperately seeking fellow Italian-Americans in Montana for good pasta and raised voices.\\xa0\\nInstagram: Instagram.com/markocapoferri\\xa0\\n\\xa0\\nSan Gorgonio\\xa0\\n\\xa0\\nWhite paper coffee cups collect in drifts\\xa0\\nby the freeway exit ramp\\u2014the hearts of ghosts\\xa0\\nonce held tight then tossed out the window\\xa0\\nof a car speeding across the desert at four a.m.\\xa0\\n\\xa0\\xa0\\ntrying to stay awake to see, when the light\\xa0\\ncame back, what the battered face of the land\\xa0\\ncould tell us about ourselves: how the mountains\\xa0\\nwere stark and risen; how we were sunk dumb\\xa0\\n\\xa0\\xa0\\nin between, a scathing plain of wind turbines\\xa0\\nresonating unearthly as Amelia Earhart's flooded engines\\xa0\\nchugging their final gasp on the ocean floor;\\xa0\\xa0\\xa0\\nhow the sea was here once and swallowed heights,\\xa0\\n\\xa0\\xa0\\nlong since yawned and pulled away paving\\xa0\\nthis desert with a tired yellow dirt now blown\\xa0\\nthrough our teeth, through our beating pistons,\\xa0\\nand a few black rounded stones as souvenirs\\xa0\\n\\xa0\\xa0\\nfrom lost time; how thistle-studded towns\\xa0\\nwere hardly refuge; how the many stones\\xa0\\nwe had gathered were bright and jagged,\\xa0\\ntoo young by design to tell any real story;\\xa0\\n\\xa0\\xa0\\nhow lust and lost became an exchange in glances\\xa0\\nthrough a motel\\u2019s cracked facade; how these roads\\xa0\\nkept on dressing down like lightning on a postcard\\xa0\\nrunning fingers in the hot mouth of experience.\\xa0\\n\\xa0\\xa0\\nSelf-portrait with Elegy\\xa0\\n\\xa0\\xa0\\nJust like we were on the Great Plains\\xa0\\nin 1949, my father and I would gather\\xa0\\nsummer nights with neighbors\\xa0\\nlining our country road to watch\\xa0\\nconstellations disbanding. Whether tragedy\\xa0\\nor a tragic lack of imagination, it\\u2019s hard\\xa0\\nto say\\u2014he and I simply could not see\\xa0\\nany threads or their severing. Then,\\xa0\\nas now, telephone wires also lined the road\\xa0\\nlinking the night one lighted island\\xa0\\nat a time, though the wires are now dead\\xa0\\ngestures, props to a faded empire\\xa0\\nof distant voices made close but never\\xa0\\nclose enough to turn that light\\xa0\\ninto warmth. What\\u2019s left\\u2014sinking\\xa0\\ninto my own humidity, my own\\xa0\\nexpanse of darkness, and he\\xa0\\nto his own. As you read this\\xa0\\nit is surely a summer night some place\\xa0\\nthe land extends forever\\xa0\\nuntil it gives up where the visible\\xa0\\nbegins to visibly waver, either\\xa0\\nfrom the heat or from the failure\\xa0\\nof the possibilities of sight."