The debut collection from west coast performance poet, Hilary Peach, BOLT ranges over familiar and unknown landscapes. From a series of surreal vignettes derived from 20 years as a welder with the Boilermakers’ Union, to a suite of poems based on the truths and superstitions of snakelore, to alluring, lacerating, songs of loss and longing, BOLT investigates rough terrain and long horizons. A compilation of poetry, performance scores, and autobiographical narratives, it is full of voices, places, fleeting encounters, animals, busted hearts, machinery, and extreme weather. Delicate portraits of birds muscle in on experimental text scores. Buffaloes thunder through the pages. Lovers are left weeping, factory stacks rear up against boiling skies, and coaltrains thread silently through clouds of fugitive dust. It is a collection of scars, and a compendium of remedies. BOLT is a measurement of lightening. It’s the familiar impulse that occasionally seizes us all, to suddenly run, out of control. But it’s also a carefully engineered fastener that holds things together.