What is thinking, and where do thoughts come from? Rohrer, in a state of startling tranquillity, looks within and without for answers and delivers an astounding array of possibilities, sometimes reaching into the ephemeral ('I wake indistinguishable from the washed-out morning') and sometimes happily insular ('I feel like I really am my thoughts'). Either way, the act of connecting—to one's own mind, to the world outside of the mind and to both simultaneously—is the supreme thrust of the book, and it is impossible to resist participating in this nonchalant adventure in metaphysical perception.

A Plate of Chicken is a masterpiece of subtlety and frailty, a series of glimpses, thought-fragments, coping devices, and simple declarative sentences. 'My function,' Rohrer writes, 'is to be in love between two people who hate each other,' and to this end he serves the gods of sentence and line simultaneously. This gathering of seven-line stanzas opens a door to a blanket of white noise, like Brian Eno's Music for Airports, and never lets up.

'Take off your pants, Creepy, and be my love.' Domesticity and poetry are at the heart of these outlandish and tender poems, all seven lines long (or is it one long poem made up of seven line stanzas?), in which collisions are continually occurring, as words and lines of thought bump up against, and rub, each other. Rohrer’s poems are blunt, erotic, romantic, declarative, down to earth, outrageous, funny, sad, and better than any other plate of chicken placed before you in this life. Sit down and enjoy a sumptuous no-frills meal that doesn’t try to fill you with iceberg lettuce.