Attributed to the Harrow Painter reckons with fatherhood, the violence of nostalgia, poetry, and the commodity world of visual art as the poems here frantically cycle through responses to the speaker's son's remark on a painting by Julian Schnabel that it "looks like garbage." What does it mean to be a minor artist, the poems wonder, like the Greek pot painter named in the book's title, who is described by one critic as "indeed a minor talent, not withstanding the undeniable charm of some of his works"? What structures must be destroyed to clear the way for all the "minor" voices that litter the discourse of Western civilization? This is a mangled, tattered guide to transcendence through art in an age when such a thing seems nearly impossible.