Well, you never can tell...(thank you Arni and Christine...)
This was a chunk of prose that I thought might go with some other chunks of
prose, if I happened to write them (I haven't yet). I started typing it in
to post it, and as I was doing so saw/heard line-breaks, so I put them in
where they seemed to be. Next thing you know it's a poem. But what's it
about? What does it mean?
This time I blame Ron Silliman, because I keep reading stuff he quotes in
his blog that I start admiring immediately but can't make any sort of sense
of, and go on from there to thinking that maybe there's some merit after all
in writing stuff that doesn't make sense. It's *really hard* for me to not
make sense (to myself, at least). I think these poets Ron Silliman quotes
and I admire are doing something really hard.
Actually, "sense" in a broader sense is just what they do make, which is why
there's something there to admire: a sensuous surface, an enigma (coding,
crypting) of the senses, an incitement to sense things that don't
immediately make sense. There's a little drama of ostentation there, in the
midst of the most intellectually baffling writing. At least, that's what's
in it for me. But I don't know if I can do it myself. It's nice to think
that perhaps I can.
Dominic
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