I once cracked a tooth biting into a fork because I was too engaged in watching TV on my laptop while eating. Living alone, one is hardly ever able to eat with others without going out.

A poem is like a cracked tooth– evidence that we are no longer among people [society Latin- societas from socius- ‘companion’], but like waking in the night to find a knife sticking into the wall above your head, the how, who and when of your isolation is no longer traceable– all that remains are an ensemble of wounds and damaged apparatus dressed up in language and a font that the journal editors might find appealing.

For all the postulating on the ethereality of poetry, some things like criticizing the government, never go out of style; also like treating the poem as object. I love the muse, the whip-crack of tradition, but think also of the possibility of the poem as a designed object– subject to ergonomics, prototypes and choice of materials.

Language, Conceptual and Concrete poetry is or was labeled as radical, yet their work is a metaphor for construction– literally, a carrying over of the work from philosophy, mysticism, religion, politics and other text-based discourses, into the realm of engineering, product design, the plastic arts and drama.

Of this work I am sure its use and input is the driving force behind poetry’s jailbreak from archival condemnation. But of the lost semantic and semiotic clarity? As with culture jamming and drag queens, I don’t yet know enough to say.