Pit Swan & Orbate Writing
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You could spend your whole day in one of these poems and anywhere in it. Living spending spending living. You could live physically in the poem. What choice does the body have? I dig the "listing" of things that riff and rhyme. This "method" explores, rather than having a title that would frame/explain at onset, we have here a title that "explains" nothing. None of it, no line in it, necessitates anything that follows it, no questions begged; if a summation or ending's prized, possibly eyes're on it, but there's much in one's lap or in the foreground, arms-length away, to be sifted and reckone...
You could spend your whole day in one of these poems and anywhere in it. Living spending spending living. You could live physically in the poem. What choice does the body have? I dig the "listing" of things that riff and rhyme. This "method" explores, rather than having a title that would frame/explain at onset, we have here a title that "explains" nothing. None of it, no line in it, necessitates anything that follows it, no questions begged; if a summation or ending's prized, possibly eyes're on it, but there's much in one's lap or in the foreground, arms-length away, to be sifted and reckoned with. Like it doesn't matter just what's said, hashing and hammering might result in some slashed flatness, here are particulars overrun on the way there. None of it "filler" and all of it, "bundles of murk" to "training heals" to "oatmeat" as vital, indispensable, invaluable. The "stuff of life" rather than the confabbed frictions that life's arguably stuffed of. This poem could go on forever, a ticker tape of particulars, up for grabs, going once. Turning out hammered out vital stats, a line-stack of lines running vertically thru time. Italicized lines counterpoints as connectors, hinges, summations, concurrent poetic bizness conducted, parallel series, commentary. And places where the poem can fold and stack, maintaining their spacing even when the poem's been folded and stacked, a cube on the desk, in the air, in the mind. Parallel poesy. - from Preface by John Crouse
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