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About this poet

Ben Doller (previously Doyle) was born in Warsaw, New York in 1973. He completed his undergraduate education at the State University of New York at Oswego and West Virginia University, and he received an MFA from the Iowa Writers' Workshop, where he was awarded a Teaching-Writing Fellowship.

He is the author of Fauxhawk (Wesleyan University Press, 2015), Dead Ahead (Fence Books, 2010), FAQ (Ahsahta Press, 2009), and Radio, Radio (Louisiana State University Press, 2001), which was selected by Susan Howe for the 2000 Walt Whitman Award

Doller has taught at the Iowa Writers' Workshop, West Virginia University, and Denison University, and he served as the Distinguished Visiting Professor at Boise State University in 2007. He is coeditor of the Kuhl House Contemporary Poetry Series at the University of Iowa Press, and is vice editor and designer of 1913 a journal of forms and 1913 Press.

He is an associate professor at the University of California, San Diego, and lives in North Park, San Diego.


Selected Bibliography

 

Fauxhawk (Wesleyan University Press, 2015) 
Dead Ahead (Fence Books, 2010)
FAQ (Ahsahta Press, 2009)
Radio, Radio (Louisiana State University Press, 2001)

Obviously

The curtain is kind

of cool. Hitchcock
liked it. Why

not. Great place 

for getting shot
or famous or for 

bleeding back 

behind the iron 
one. The score

diegetic as they

come. Bernard 
Herrmann forever 

human. 

The gowns hanged
in greenroom ligature.

Edith Head never 

dead. Great place
for a nail-bomb.

A cold one.

Watch them watch 
their watches run

out of wick. 

Obviously this opera 
sort of sucks

you in or off

your seat. You
see phony fire 

and roar it too.

Copyright © 2011 by Ben Doller. Used with permission of the author.

Copyright © 2011 by Ben Doller. Used with permission of the author.

Ben Doller

Ben Doller

Ben Doller is the author of Fauxhawk (Wesleyan University Press, 2015). He is an associate professor at the University of California, San Diego, and lives in North Park, San Diego.

by this poet

poem

Just want things
proportional.

Just things,
not all.

Not kings, kings
should be below:

shoveling, dripping,
and most of all—

literally speaking—
not people

nothing living
need be within our ratio.

I underexaggerate,
though:

there’s

2
poem
Lick the lights. Everyone 
says that here. Sometimes 
they'll call a spade a shovel, 
hollowing half a hole, 
which is all I have to sleep inside.


There's one


arboretum running 
underground from near here 
to Verisimilitude City. 
I measure the macrocosm 
with miles of mint string. Flossing


the dunning
poem

whiter I make it when walking right in
unswerved, sweating fluorescent bleach,
preaching a moon page that says its welts:
learn this by heart is empty but do it
to do it. I make it somehow whiter, zombied
and I opified allover the absolutely
whitest room. I say keep your lines in line