From the moment I read it, this line of poetry sat heavy on my mind, encapsulating, for me, the root of identity and the acknowledgement of its inescapability. It churned up personal queries about my own self and my own wrinkles. Yet before I had spoken with Keith Flynn, the author who catalyzed my introspection, I had quickly filed him under “poet” and “musician” in my mind. After an hour of conversation that ranged from Spanish surrealism to the “treason weasel” of modern politics to a lifelong love of boxing, though, I realized that you can’t pigeonhole who Keith Flynn is or what he does. And that’s exactly how he likes it.
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