AT THE HOUSE is a memoir in two parts. "Musicmakers: Poems About Florida" And "Mythmaker: Outsider Poems." I'd compare it to A Moveable Feast. I'm writing it for posterity. It might be published posthumously. It might not. I'm not Ernest Hemingway. No, I'm Jack Saunders. I didn't kill myself. I'm still at it. Here in Parker, Florida, at The Daily Bulletin (www.thedailybulletin.com). Enough is as good as a feast. The immobilized hero in modern fiction. What Charles Willeford called New Forms of Ugly. It isn't ugly, it's just different. Actually, it's the same. Nothing changes much. I get up and write. I post it at my web site. Nothing happens to it. What would happen? It's words on paper. Or, in my case, bits in cyberspace. Ones and zeros. The digital revolution. I am the man, I suffered, I was there, Whitman said. I'd compare it to Leaves of Grass and Specimen Days rolled into one. Some prose. Some nonfiction.