Shiloh Broadside
I finally bought a laptop and installed a router to make the house wireless. Now I can browse the web from the comfort of my easy chair. That's much easier than walking upstairs, booting the desktop, and waiting for the computer to connect to DSL from
SBC. The wireless aspect is much more convenient.
One of my first discoveries from the easy chair was the The Poetry Center of Chicago Broadsides: original poems and 
visual art, letter-pressed onto cotton paper with archival inks in limited editions of fifty to one hundred. The copies of the broadsides are gif images. Otherwise I'd copy and paste Shiloh by James Tate.
I rarely buy impulsively, even when it's easy to do so, even more rarely when the buying is difficult. Nonetheless I just called the Poetry Center in Chicago, had a pleasant conversation with Kenneth, and ordered the Shiloh broadside--30 of 50. There's only a few of the 11X15 broadsides left, and for $99, you're really not doing that much to support poetry. But, nicely framed, you'll have a wonderful poem hanging on the wall.
I've seen that broadside, or an ad for it, some time in the distant past. Just recently, I attended an art opening at which the results of an artist's and poet's collaboration were displayed. The two had worked recursively for about a year on a set of themes, using their two art forms as ground for nurturing ideas.
Interestingly, they didn't stay with a more predictable one image-one poem approach, but let the growing body of their collaboration influence earlier images and poems, inviting each to return to "finished" pieces for further work.
The exhibition space was a medium-sized, high-ceilinged room in a former grade school, with tall windows and plenty of natural light. The poems were reprinted in very large fonts on broadside sheets and inserted into simple black-and-glass frames. The two had selected maybe 10 or 12 poems and the same number of art pieces for the show.
To show the history of the collaboration (it was called "Cross Currents"), the artist chalked connecting lines from art work to poem, poem to art work, across the floor of the exhibition space and up the walls. Every item displayed at least two connections to other items, some had more. It was fascinating to follow the trails back and forth.
Another interesting (and I'm not sure intended) phenomenon: as opening night visitors shuffled from poem to art work to poem and back, the chalked lines began to disappear, wiped out by the new "interaction" of the public. By the end of the evening, all traces of this poet's and artist's long and intimate collaboration had been erased, or rather, replaced or "buried" in an archeological sense. The end of the evening brought a kind of muffled or "trampled" sense to the recorded exchange.
In a way, each poem and art work was thus liberated (or exiled) to itself.