I jotted "Lyric Flypaper Paging Chris Sullivan" in a composition notebook at a trio of connected metal-vinyl waiting chairs at the Wound Clinic, Medical Center of Louisiana New Orleans, all occupied and mine next to a large woman in an overwhelmingly aggressive perfume, nor a hopeful portent for the diagnosis I waited for; I'd make a book of the lyrics I'd written and stole from things and places and people like Jake Fussell telling me about Phenix...