‘What gets me is, how man refuses to acknowledge the consequences of his disposing of himself at his own entrance — as though a kiss were a cheap thing, as though he were.’ — Charles Olson, The Human Universe This like everything and everything else starts elsewhere than about itself but not necessarily at the heart of it all or indeed anywhere which, for now, we can give a name (or at least I could if, and if only, you were something able to be reduced/aligned/forced into such a space other than the event of your own eventual whatever) — a poetry of deliberate indelicacy will do none avoiding the impulse, a Derek Bailey sort of distance with a ‘photographic memory’ masking the sort of resentment only a P.E. teacher could love, day in day out , within and without, grotesque and glorious exterior lasting long after the...