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Denise Cottingham - Portland, OR (USA):

April 30, 2001:
This book was free.
I spent my last dime on this book.
This book I ordered and this one ordered me.
This book (poetry) I wrote a bad check for, and later consoled
    myself with the title notion "Writing Bad Checks for Poetry."
This book I lost and bought again-- you will be mine.
Every word is underlined in this book.
This back has no cover.
This book has no words.
This book has all the answers.
This book is overdue.
This book is irritating.
This is a sorry book--
this book can bite me and take a hike.
The more I think about it, this book can go read itself.
This damn book.
This book named me.
This book opened me.
This book held me and carressed my ego all night long.
This is one of my favorite books.
I'm all over this book.
This book escapes me.
This book I hoard.
This book I pretend to read.
This book I intend to read.
This book I defend.
This book knocks my socks off, takes the cake, and rocks.
This book kills me.
This book fell in the bathtub. I would be lying if I
    said the toilet.
To top it off, this book isn't exactly a book.
What happened to this book?
This book, a gift.
This book, a steal. In the early '80's, my 20-something boyfriend
    shoplifted a gigantic hardback anthology of women's literature and brought it to
    me when I was ill. It's hard to be mad sometimes.
This book borrowed many moons ago.
This book promises promises.
This book is not mine.
This book was an idea that Annie had suggested when she visited
    with Meg last September.
This book is his office dictionary. He highlights words he looks
    up. He highlights words. He looks up.
I bought this book for its cover.
This book about addiction has red wine stains on at least one
    page.
I finally finished this book.

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