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good books gone bad
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One might think of Alan Sondheim as the
Joyce of our time. Too big while he’s here among us, or while
we’re here among him, to get our heads around what he’s
done and is doing…On the other hand, it’s clear he doesn’t
want to be our Joyce at all, in deliberate, un-scrolling process
as he is of immolating himself, incinerating any last trace of canonical
identity in a stupendous bonfire of poetry, code, and secret philosophy.
What “Joyce” shall be left? What “Sondheim”?
A monk burns in full view and the blaze refuses to go out. We’re
here watching, startled and baffled, contemptuous and titillated.
That we don’t quite know what fuels the seemingly mystical
act renders the transfiguration all the more unsettling and marvelous.
Writing without purpose; purposeful writing; not delivery of contentment or white space infill. Writing as individuation of multipliers where what is familiar is parodic as it is manifested, cyborgian tenacity creating its selves in process awareness, sans merci. I is mindful of being confederated awareness. Peripheral desiring bodies remain animal, alone and palely loitering during downtime, mammals with machines, sensuous making intellects. Lawrence Upton
Product Information: POETRY · Paperback: 120 pages |
