2017. 8.5x11, 24 pages.
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from the introduction:
Merab Mamardashvili once wrote that there is no need to look for the philosophy in a philosophic texts. Because there's no philosophy in them. He thought you can't study philosophy. You must do it yourself - by thinking, exercising, looking, asking, feeling - changing, transcending yourself - bit by bit - getting closer - 'till every little thing, every detail will be reborn in your mind. For me the same thing goes with poetry. It must be something completely different.
These texts are inky wrought iron contortions on a midnight South Seas beach. They live in the bones, in machinery, in the clockwork atomic sun at the heart of language. Sometimes I found myself playing space invaders in a 1980s video games arcade as I stared at these; other times I thought I knew what a balanced, orderly universe might mean to an 18th century Newtonian physicist. The poems can be ornate or rigid or round all at once like tribal mathematics. They remind me of impossible board games and the invention of mechanical biology in the tallest towers of underground cities. You might just become a genius child again reading these, or your limbs might knit together in new ways because this is what writing can be when we don't know what writing is. I find them brilliant and imaginative, seriously delightful, something to plant in your brain when the world becomes the tedious assembly line of billionaire tycoons.