1st ----- welcome Chris, it's a bright fact that you joined us / this, I'm
perked up and set to renew -- anyone who saw The Consolations recently in
London must surely also recount this buzz pronto --

What is the sky? It is at once: that for which, that for whom, that as
which, that without which, that beneath which, that by which and so also
and without the exact possibility of omission, that -through- which
(eg missiles are tipped). The circumference is able variously to be
sketched out, why not delete FROM WHICH and then say, rain falls from only
so high above me as in gazing upwards I can see for myself, nothing higher
need puncture my comprehension -inevitably-. But the decision to exclude
some evinced aspect of the sky's real description, so by trimming it down
to keep it manageable (or beautifully unmanageable), is to prefer
preference to cognizance. Cognizance won't let anything
thought-of belie its relation anywhere. Preference does I suppose have a
strong claim to being preferred, though not as strong a claim as the
preference of cognizance has to being preferred cognizantly. Gnash,
jitter. If the USAF is nothing to do with the sky, then it's never the
sky through which they tip out metal cant and fire. it's just something
preferably skyey but neverlasting.

I want a grey world in which such things are deleted by imaginative edict.

You say:

into the deletion gap one's tempted to cram consequently the suggestion
that politics might have not much after all to do with poetry, but mainly
with incidences of poetry. which is to say that i think i might make an
act of poetry without being more than ordinarily sensitive across that act
to the conditions by which it is surrounded.



But again, it's preference, this time of the sensitivity-radius as if it
were sensitivity which could institute the created object in its relations
to where it ends up; rather: what we do now is a preemptive echo of
what later we shall acknowledge having done, all of which will by that
point be a part of the world just as mackerel is. -Telos- of the
here-and-now: later to parallel mackerel. Poetry -is- incidences of
poetry, and behaviour towards it, ontic blocks, altogether but most
conspicuously in just this sense, that even as the possible words squirm
electrically in a brain disposed somehow to care for itself, they can be
shoved out only at the expense of rendering fictive their earlier latency.
What I thought when I did what I did is just a metaphor for what I did
when I did what I did.

Most talk of 'process' in poetry lacks the dids to say this.


Your other point, about the holes in the face: the pursuit of an
impossible goal is not by recognition of its endlessness made therefore
irrational. Nor is it made irrational by the undesirability of the end
which, though impossible, it is a pursuit in respect of. There is a
putative irrationality, yes; but again, reputations are just what people
happen to think. When they happen to think, they -happen-: it is what in
happening they -do-, the fabric of real history, that is important, and
nobody -does- -anything- which makes that pursuit irrational. Ever.


Extremely glad that you're here, K







%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%