My little library is nearly complete. It’s the smallest room in the apartment, save the bathroom, but now contains an office chair, my desk (made out of recycled wood by a local furniture maker), a stool, Smith-Corona typewriter, record player, and three pale wood bookshelves.

In other words, the whole get up is basically porn for poets.

During my first evening in my little nook, I sprawled out with a copy of Pedagogy of the Oppressed, a book long recommended to me by my pedagogically inclined friend, Steve. I still have a little room to mix and match books – giving away older copies of The Poet’s Market and switching out some of the trashier reads for the rest of my poetry collection. Plus, of course, all my many, many notebooks.