Palmer’s logicalogics leaves me beautifully off-balance. Its blend of heady sex, heavy theory, and carefully rendered coming-of-age sentiment puts the ‘I’ through a slurry of "logics," social, theoretical, and literary, until it runs out the other side burnished into flakes of gold. Part memoir, part philosophy, part mad scientist in the language lab, Palmer’s particular yawp straddles the camps that organize business-as-usual U.S. verse; it’s worth leaving whatever fire you warm at for.