New Work

Unidentified Poetic Object

(now forthcoming from Brick Books in 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

-+=+-

Escapement Lithics

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

-+=+-

Mosquito Hologram

Sleep is a tree with a thousand rivers
Crispr mutant mosquitos you can bet are
Weaponized former people who neither Sleep nor eat but happily work and don’t need
To be destroyed for quite some time
The energy flowing torqued through dying Suffering hatred joy release
Ecstasy really if you jump up
Do your feet land on the ground
Or do you splash into water in the sleep of the moment
Is the moment of awareness
Maybe every word A fleeting place marker in that slow wave
Sleep not tethered to the dock
Sleep with one eye open flying over the network of rivers
Sleep after sex in a wave
Of mosquitoes of your former selves

The way light falls on a two dimensional interference pattern


About [OR]

Codes are hidden everywhere. Messages sliding though the atmosphere slipping into microwave towers, handheld devices, nervous systems, brains, retinas, barcodes, alarms, antimissile missile systems, the antennae of DNA (Sheldrake may have been right all along!), the traces of virtual particles, the Chauvet cave drawings, your Twitter account. Each broaches a transformative version of its own transduction. The buck never stops. And the future might already have happened. What does this mean? That everything we do is a déja-vu? It’s been documented (Benjamin Libbet) that perception happens before we know it. Maybe it’s no wonder that my new manuscript uses tropes from spy thrillers and code breakers. In it, someone may have been murdered, or moved to another dimension (perhaps the poet?). Along the way some rather strange perturbations occur to narrative and its others: memory, (prosthetic memory), dream, reportage, code (of course), a little history of the future, déja-vu, paramnesia, the virtual - versions, evasions and alternatives. Each poem gets read a few times, its code deciphered or ciphered back up. Some of the poems decay, or after the fact, are pre. Each reader reads his or her own poem and encodes it for another. What communication crosses out, these poems try to find.

[OR], is published with TalonBooks.


Sharawdji Backgrounder

Right now I’m thinking of poems as sensation generating events that rather than concentrate on either on the referencing process, on the narrative or its speaker, the signified or signifier, the phoneme, or any of the traditional corporeal aspects of the poem, concentrate instead on the incorporeal, the phantasms and microphantasms that the body of a poem can project, on its ghosts, ever so fleetingly. What Brian Massumi calls the virtual. Pre-reference. Pre-narrative. Events that characterize emergent and self-organizing systems that happen in far-from-equilibrium conditions. “Dissipative structures,” to take a phrase from Prigogine, that throw off possible-narratives, or possible-nodes of awareness. Something like this (wish me luck; I’ll need it):

Insignia

In the fragile moment of the letter that
calls out your name, in the lift up over sounding
of the medicine quill, tincture at wrist
blue under yellow shaft of flicker
under owl wing sonata, green
ink, copper wall window, colour of
endangered hush. Walk in here, she said, and she
meant by way of the colours, which deepened
as you heard them, bone white, bone yellow, bone
black, coloratura, an insignia embossed
in beaten gold, every door its own
paradise animal, its own eye.