Brick Books 2019
Writing is like dream thinking in zones of undecidability; words rub up against each other – words phrases, stanzas, events – where they collide they produce fields of indeterminacy, of hybridity.
They refuse easy detection, recognition, want to evade by always being on the point of morphing, their being is in phase space.
The writing I’m after now is a kind of attempt to stay in the virtual, the not yet, the yet to come. I think it’s how we see things as they verge and come into being before they are identified, before they have identity.
Or maybe the poems are zombie poems existing in that space between the living and the dead; or across both; they flow transversally (Deleuze) through subject and object. In these days of increasing constraint they are looking for a way out.
At any rate we’re forced to see these whatever- they-are things as things w/o predetermined use. Or w/o merely human use. Playful objects, haunted objects, objects w/o addresses. Vagabond objects. Partisan objects. The world is not a human world; humans are in it. And these small perturbations also live here.
Because you can only experience one thought or feeling at a time this exposure of undecidability is a clamour of the possible.
I find it a useful practice for freeing up my viewing, my perceiving of the world. We all tend to get locked into our perceptions and understandings and then living and life don’t seem to be on the same page. I put a lot of different things on the same page. Just to see. What might happen. Because things are always (as William James has said) things-in-the-making. And isn’t this where hope lives?
The One About The Non-Givenness of Things
Everything seemed fine until a minute ago a small fragment
Of one of your memories seems to have slivered
Itself into my skin oh that’s not you everyone
Seems to be speaking another language politics
Misrepresenting its own truth laundering flashbang
Pronouncements squid ink black cohosh lighting
Up the shade a moment of perpetuity as
Different from eternity assuming of course we
Could agree on definitions the awkward grace
Of vultures dialling in their dihedrals the sky
With its many coloured ribbons where clouds effortlessly
Age let’s agree at least there are moments of
Suspension shrunk nearly to human
Comprehension lipogramic centrifuges contact
Cement hudson eight one four eight four
The Cisco Kid the interpretation of breathing redside
Dace where each thing can open the world
Well if not shouldn’t there be
Slow memory rapids
After flying firearrows
Furrowsmoke across the sky from us
Whose surprise waterplain you dive into
Come close nearly to be grasped
Whorled wake emptiness in fathomless blue
Resplendent void of radio bardos almost heard
Bestowing the machine whispering of ancient insect choirs
Through a quartz keyhole
Where the empire of television once held sway
Mica arrow slit through
Which I try to lipread the pyritic mouths the
Cascade of tiny parachutes at the back of the mind the suntwisted houses
Whose attics blown off course have begun to be washed into sandbars
But even though I might dredge and sift a lifetime It’s unlikely I’ll find what I’m looking for
Since it’s in my other life the one scribbled by the light looping off the other lake in the other house
What I’m looking for is on the inside of that
On the flip side of the Moonlight
The alarm flirt for the biotite cloudburst