In 2008, Michael Nicoloff, fully lacking in other inspiration, set out on a project of self-emulation: Taking his own chapbook Punks as a model, he’d write 28 poems, paired two to a page, that got at the kind of tonal disgust and placelessness that had driven that previous work. Failure was inevitable, but six years later we have IHYD, an irritable, talky sequence, 2/3rds written solo, 1/3rd written with collaborators, throwing into question who’s emulating whom, who’s the I and who’s the You, and do we want anyone dead, really?