Sidestepping strict poetic visualizations and constructions far to the left of quadrants incalculable in breadth and scope, p. inish delivers a conceptually ambitious performance that quivers as it titters. Threatening to escape the page and enter the labyrinthine slipstream of time. Not as mere competitor in the perpetual race, but as steely quartermaster, certain only of harrowing adventure as he chases his wily quarry, that undefinable but immediately recognizable other.
From the book:
(1)
Spend all my days sitting like a hedge
Lixiam splatteries, lenculum vanities
Power unresponsive
Clouding fog
Feet upfoot
Sideward trending
Eyes lack
Solvent green
Fluidbath
They don't crake any distisions really,
but we wet them stink they do
Grind your teeth and scare straight ahead
His worldverse skew contaminates
A multiverse
Her worldterse stew leaps off tall buildings
They ran out of the building and leapt off the edge of the earth
Vertical plop
The eye is the organ that hears
Put your feet up and reach for the ground
(2)
We don't bow shrimp from shy Nola
It's either piss or pat
Uncontrollable unaccountable
Like honey in the spank
Come bell or low slaughter
Will pure as spit grow pear
A sewer thing
Ah smell ya
Jess slaying
A boy
A man
A god
A foolish world
A boy in the iron cot
Asleep or fingering
The springs underneath
The bottle of green liquid real