Singular Vispo :: First Encounters Part 8

Was there an experience, a specific interaction with visual poetry that infected your brain, made you see language differently or drew you toward exploring vispo further? Is there a vispoem that captured your imagination. What piece first awakened in you the possibility of a visual alphabet/language alternative? That was the general question posed and here are the results. Though this query is overly reductive, the poets were kind enough to choose, for the most part, a singular vispoem as example of this phenomenon. The over forty posts will be rolled out in groups of five each. Enjoy!


Geof Huth /on Eugen Gomringer

Gomringer y yo (Una vez más)

I came of age in the 1970s, reaching my teens in that decade, and (even though I lived overseas) I lived through some of the fads in the teaching of English that took place in the United States during that time. My teachers taught haiku, the lyrics and even the music of the Beatles, and concrete poetry as part of the literary world—which actually made and makes sense to me. This was the mid-1970s, and I was living in Calacoto, Bolivia, just down the hill from La Paz, and the usually simple and visually structured words of mid-century concrete poetry that I was exposed to appealed to my interest in the word as language, as visible and aural sign.

Let’s admit that I didn’t interpret my interest in this way at the time. I was merely entranced by the writing that had as core to its meaning its visual presentation. I had always been a boy interested in books, and part of what I enjoyed about them was the way text looks on a page, how it is enhanced on the covers and title pages, how visual cues indicate the significance and purpose of the text. In another world, with a slightly different focus, I may have become a typographer, a textual designer. But I came into my intellectual life in the middle of the seventies, at just the point that mid-century concrete was dissolving into the esthetic fabric of the world—so I entered the world of concrete poetry just as it was dying, just at the time that the common rigidity of that form to culture had reached the zenith of its fame, and just at the point of its steep and quick decline.

I made it in time for the death throes of concrete poetry, but I didn’t know it yet. Poesia visiva, a poetry of much richer visual richness, was already being practiced in Europe. The wider world of visual poetry was already in play, but I was still in the throes of concrete, particularly the concrete poems of Eugen Gomringer, one of the putative fathers of concrete poetry. Gomringer was, I note, one of the three independent coiners of the term “concrete poetry” (the others being the Brazilian Noigandres group and Öyvind Fahlström, an accomplished artist who never really was a concrete poet).

avenidas y flores

flores y mujeres 

avenidas y mujeres 

avenidas y flores y mujeres y
un admirador

Gomringer’s poetry was visual and did depend on the visual presentation of words across space, but they could also sometimes be read as simple textual poems. His reportedly first concrete poem was the simple “avenidas,” in which he worries less about the visual and more about sound: massive rime riche, extreme repetition (except for the last line’s words, every individual word in the poem appears at least four times), and an interest in meter. And this poem had something for a teenage boy living near La Paz, Bolivia, in the 1970s: It seemed to be about Miraflores, a suburb of La Paz. I have never read this poem about avenues, flowers, and women without imagining it in Miraflores (and actually at a particular corner there). The poem is all about seeing, as a visual poem should be, so it seems a poem appropriate for a suburb bearing a name that translates as Seeflowers.  

Also, although Gomringer was German Swiss, he was born in Cachuela Esperanza, Bolivia, a village in Bolivia’s far north, and a place so far from La Paz that I never visited the place—and there was probably no reason to (it was not Oruro with its carnival nor Cochabama with its Cochabambinas wearing their bowler hats). Being from Bolivia, Gomringer wrote this poem in one of his native languages, and its simplicity has a nostalgic and childlike quality. The poem reminds me (and reminded me) of where I was living at the point I learned of concrete poetry, and the poem tells me that visual poetry can be written in any language, that it is about the elimination of words to their essential core, often to the noun alone, sans normal syntax. I learned that concrete poetry could almost be a poetry that breaks the constraints of language, because its spareness allows for easy translation, almost allows for an automatic invisible translation. The great concrete poetry anthologies of the seventies included poems in many languages presented in those languages but also easily translated via tiny glossaries on the pages they each appeared.

Concrete poetry appealed to me because it was always polyglot and internationalist. Gomringer wrote his poems in three languages: Spanish, German, and English. Gomringer grew up in a polyglot world, just as I had, and he used all of his languages, just as I have. His multi-continental biography reminded me of my own. And I enjoyed the Bauhaus-influenced purity of his poems. His poem “avenidas” is as visually uninteresting as his poems come. Although his poems are always rigidly formatted, they still can have complexity, and sometimes even a beautiful fluidity. One of his best poems, an almost perfect poem in both visual form and verbal content and meaning, consists of arcs contained and created by nothing more than horizontal and vertical lines:


Except for the meaningless word “bo,” this poem deftly uses actual words in the English language to demonstrate, rather than discuss or explicate, the growth of plants through to the point of the release of their leaves and petals. The poem does not try to educate; it attempts only to show. All it does is be.

Inside this poem, I see die Augen der Eugen, the eyes of the well born, the ability to create visual interest with the simplest of visual cues, all of them made of printed words—which forms the core of the visual poet, though certainly not the whole. Gomringer is a touchstone for me because he is the beginning, but the graceful and transformative beginning, of modern visual poetry. I was probably caught for too long in the trap of trying to replicate Gomringer, and I cannot even believe now that it was ever possible for me to capture his style. Below is my Gomringeresque poem (written now as part of these notes) about die Augen der Eugen. The poem has the structured meaning and utility of a Gomringer poem, but it doesn’t have its perfection. It is as visual as it is aural. It has the shadow of a Gomringer poem but not the heft.

eugen augen eugen
augen eugen augen
eugen augen eugen

eugen augen eugen
eugen augen eugen

eugen augen eugen
augen eugen augen
eugen augen eugen

Sitting here, I have just realized that all the coiners of the term “concrete poetry” were born in South America: Fahlström and the Noigandres poets in Brazil, and Gomringer in Bolivia. Alll of them, also, were born in countries whose names begin with the letter b (an important letter in concrete poetry because it can be mirrored in all directions into three other minuscule letters of the Latin alphabet). I myself wasn’t born in South America, but I lived there, I learned of concrete poetry there, and I became a poet there. To some degree, Gomringer is the poet who influenced me the most, who drew me into this world of visual poetry, because he was the one most like me, the one I could follow without fearing I would be lost. His was the path I could branch off from.


Willard Bohn /on Ardengo Soffici

Soffici, Bicchier d'Acqua

Ardengo Soffici, “Bicchier d’Acqua”

 The first visual poems I ever encountered were Apollinaire’s calligrams, which in 1967 became the subject of a dissertation at the Université de Toulouse on the role of the Chinese ideogram in Apollinaire and the Anglo-American Imagists. However, the first poem that inspired me to devote much of my life to exploring visual poetry was Ardengo Soffici’s “Bicchier d’Acqua” (“A Glass of Water”), published in Lacerba on January 15, 1914. Invited to contribute to a collection of essays on Soffici published in Italy in 1976, I took my first hard look at visual poetry and was amazed to discover what it could accomplish. Visual and verbal components not only reinforce each other in Soffici’s composition but also complement each other in several ingenious ways (for an analysis, see my The Aesthetics of Visual Poetry, pp. 37-40). Since Soffici was primarily a painter, he chose to portray the glass of water visually. And yet the fact that it is composed of words allies it to traditional poetry. Since the glass is half full of water, the words in the top half are arranged differently than those in the bottom half. Justified on both sides, the composition resembles a picture and a text simultaneously.


Márton Koppány /on George Brecht

George Brecht six doorsGeorge Brecht, Six Doors, 1963

We must have six doors if we accept the rules of the game. We have four dots, and only three sets of text. What is a door good for? We can go in and out, that’s two options, and we can do both, of course, which is a third option if summing them up (keeping them in mind together) is a new choice. The possibility of having options at all might be the fourth door, represented only by a dot. We have – must have – two more doors, but those are invisible for us, have no meaning at all, they are (or are they?) completely empty – blank on the page. The only thing we are entitled to suppose is that both of them embody new possibilities, exactly the same way as the first four doors do. The two invisible doors are certainly different from each other, because they inherit the qualities of the list consisting of jumps of inclusion. The sixth door contains the fifth, perhaps. It might be a broader category. Anyway, they are different. And there is no more step in this game.

But if the invisible doors are exactly as different from each other as the visible ones, then each door is the same. We have gotten nowhere (else). I find this repetition moving and instructive.


Each step is relative, visibility and invisibility don’t work as concepts. This is a kind of conceptual piece, but not only for the mind. The full body, all senses can participate in it, because this is a “score” for an “event”. Let’s trust our eyes. Invisibility belongs to the realm of the visual.


Simple as it might be, Six Doors, a small card in its physical reality, depends on typography, on design. It communicates its own structure – like canonic concrete. I can also read it as a commentary on Gomringer’s famous Silence. The road from mystery to joke is very short, indeed. And what could be more mysterious than a good joke?

Budapest, Sept. 25. 2015


Brandon Downing /on Joe Brainard


Joe Brainard, The “Nancy” works

The painters and image-makers associated with the Bay Area Renaissance and the second-generation New York School were artists I was lucky to have been turned on to fairly early in my writing life. The great collage-maker Jess had created book covers for Bay Area writers like Norma Cole, who was a teacher of mine in graduate school at San Francisco State, and my friendship with Anselm and Edmund Berrigan, fostered in the mid-1990s, had turned me onto the radical work that Jo Brainard had done with Ted Berrigan’s C Press, as well as his early collaborative books with his partner Kenward Elmslie, like The Baby Book and The Champ.

I had already been working with collage pretty steadily for almost a decade by this point, and thought I knew my way around the variations and approaches that were available to me. I was super wrong. Seeing how Brainard, in particular, used his visual prowess and cutting eye to create collaborative works with other poets that fused seamlessly into the language, extending it, widening the field of play while simultaneously telescoping its focus, was pretty revelatory.

My own collages, focused at the time on simple juxtapositions, material counterpoints, etc…seemed, well, easy and goofy in comparison. The way I was integrating language into the collages was barely more than simple label-making and the irony of a slightly-advanced twenty-something. Taking in the work of Joe Brainard changed the whole course of the ship for me. So it was with something verging on abject joy that I visited the Berkeley Art Museum several times in early 2001 to view a major retrospective in person. And there were literally heaps of works I hadn’t seen, including a room of Cornell-influenced assemblages of consumer goods, several featuring the unnaturally green hue of Prell shampoo, one of the most revolting products of the 1970s. But what really captivated me in the show was work I thought I already knew. Over two decades, Brainard used the innocuous character of Nancy – the bland and crisply drawn newspaper-comic heroine – as the subject of more than a hundred drawings, collages and other creative ephemera. Nancy was Brainard’s jam. I’d seen a set of terrific Poetry Project reading flyers featuring the sparely drawn and inscrutable Nancy, but at the museum, seeing a group of them set together in a grid, was a plain old revelation.

He had essentially transformed Nancy into an entire cosmos. She was everywhere. Brainard attached Nancy’s confused heads to Duchamp’s nude descending a staircase. Nancy as World-Ender. Nancy as an ashtray, as an acid casualty, as a Buddha. Nancy’s face adorning porn. Nancy paintings, Nancy collages, repurposed comic strips where Nancy and Sluggo watch her aunt being devoured by a dog. Old master-styled sketchbook pages of the human form, with Nancy posing alongside the angelic figure studies, her inscrutable face smeared in sfumato. All throughout this catalogue of variety, however, it was Nancy’s implacable face, and the consistency of her representation, that made the collected works into a compelling, mind bending body.

I think the particular work here speaks a bit to that, it’s one I’ve always had a photocopy around of. A simple eight-panel-comic riff, it’s intentionally sloppy, and pulses with rule-breaking at a cosmic level: the falling Nancy literally breaks the frame, and the implied velocity and gravity of comic strip world, as, with a rare grimace, she appears to fall through and outside the physical world itself, while her little silhouetted dog seems to lunge toward her in the final frame, while being trapped by it. The implication is that Nancy, through no fault of her own – rather, through the brilliant permutations of Joe Brainard – has become a body, a physical being, too formed to exist in the flatly drawn world from which she came. That she is facing this new reality with plain dread adds a nice little pointer to her dialogue bubble: “OF CRAZY PRIDE THAT GOETH BEFORE A FALL”. I could look at this image all day.


Michael Peters /on John M Bennett

John M Bennett - Visual Poetry Reflected

Getting Vispo to the Point . Articulating Schematics on the Vaward Sound-Imaging Tip

  • Michael Peters ( For Nico )

For 1.)

like me, honing in on a singular visual poem is a difficult task, especially if you think of either the historical or amazing contemporary work being made right now. Given my history, it could have easily been Blake, or my Blakean art professor at Ohio University (Æthelred Eldridge), or Henri Michaux’s drawings perhaps—when did I first encounter these?—or Richard Kostelanetz’s “Disintegration.” You cannot go wrong with any of these. They’re still influential—to me, at least— but there are two pieces in particular that continue to haunt me in the most profoundly contemporary way: For one, John M. Bennett’s 1978 “Visual Poetry Reflected,” which appeared in the somewhat rare anthology Visual Lit Crit anthology, from the early 1980s, which was edited by none other than Kostelanetz. Then too, there is Bliem Kern’s work, specifically his observances of sound in yet another Kostelanetz anthology—Aural Lit Crit—as a means to activate what Bennett has drawn out in “Visual Poetry Reflected.” I am ultimately speaking here of the delayed resonances of my first encounters with these works, and the coupling of what they suggest.

In the context of sound-imaging as a means to an activating end, let us begin with the image. Bennett’s “Visual Poetry Reflected,” is nothing really but text, but in a quasi-poetical, life-like way, it is intensely theoretical. The notion of poetry being “the coffin of language” is, well, a dramatic statement. But let us think about grabbing onto it. Let us be Ishmael-like, so as to float off from the wreck of socio-cultural dictates and the rigid structure of grammar, et cetera, on the coffin of a cosmology that is not your own. Poetry gets at what socio-cultural dictates can’t. It’s a flotation device, for sure. So if you can grab on to that premise, Bennett’s visual poem gets even deeper in a very schematic way. In some sort of dissection of that coffin, he describes the presence of a mirror within the coffin of language. Images of mirrors surface in my oceanic head like some sort of black- cloaked figure in Maya Deren’s film “Meshes of the Afternoon” or the beginning of the Sun Ra movie “Space is the Place.” But keep in mind, the coffin is only an empty container for that which is dead.

Look, I know this talk of death sounds all dark and heavy, but we’re talking about a flotation device here. Look at what Bennett is saying. This is not some sort of cosmic bull shit. I’m talking about what we can see in the structure of this bad-ass Bennettian schematic: The art/life relation. Art always takes from life. Sucks the life out of it. Makes it commodity, et cetera. But to complete the circuit? All this talk of death is outside the point, for it’s all about the mirror—and in this sense, what’s in that mirror. This strange theoretical schematic by Bennett is not so creepy or as dark after all. It’s a schema that’s death defying, for what we actually see in the mirror of language is life, not death. It is a cosmology that is not our own because we are alive to the past and the future that dictates what we’ve become. Text, just as a visual image does do what it does, is “empty.” It takes on a reader, a performer, or a narrating coffin surfer to summon the past or the future into the service of the present. And it’s this moment that Bennett addresses in one page. Goodnight Lacanian sprites, sleep a little fake death dream in the deeper bolus of a black and starry night; sleep a little death dream about the so-called gaze as a life-trap, much less a death trap. Like the best theoretician ever, Bennett has the whole process carved visually to the coffin’s exterior whereupon it is plain to see:


In a small phrase, you get a schematic of some big stuff: Pure process, pure death and creation, or in the case of this writer’s reflection, what he sees in the Bennettian mirror: Not only art put back into relation with life, but at the same time, the past and the future put into direct relation with the present. This is stuff you can hold on to. Something like poetry, as mangled a word as it may be, that dictates to us the possibilities of what Piaget called reflective abstraction. Not the dogmas of our 21stC neo-liberal afflictions, but poetry. Nothing but poetry, alive in that empty coffin, should trump those cruzin’ for a no boehner state of mind. Should poetry rise—phoenix or sparrow-like— from the rubble like a shiny ceramic flag pinned to your suit jacket lapel? Smeary eye’d yet? It’s “on the mirror of death,” as Bennett says, like some sort political death hoax. Like some Vaseline smeared on the lens of some 1970s camera, blurring the commodified heroine so that everything gets trippy and foggy with neoliberal lust when the camera sees death walking down the plank of the Neo-Con Love Boat. I suppose this eye smears the reflection of our time. And time is that big knot—that is not that which is. With further reflection, the question ought to be: What kind of reflection should we ask for? A sounder image? What do we want to see?

So 2.)
think of the visual as only half of what’s needed, is to get at this sound-imaging thing itself. Self- reflection is purely more smeary eye’d reflection on the death thing. What we want is reflective abstraction. Something that can get us further than simple reflection, Byrd-like, to see the other pole of images. So let us think for a moment. What is the image? It is all that was at the vaward tip of all that is. Pure smeary eye’d reflection. Image is the past. And just as it take the sun some 8 minutes and 20 seconds to reach earth, even the Hubble is a smeary eye’d deep-time vision of the past. The sky is not flat, and the stars are not some Flammarion domed wonder, but much much deeper than the shallow water we look back to it from. I like this Bennettian reflection on visual poetry because it schematically hints at this insanely vaster structure, an empty space that holds all within, within which rests yet further little holding devices, devices we could call “coffin-like” bins upon which we might find the algorithmic poem, the cosmological directives from which we came from to partake of this much littler thing of here and now. Yes, I’ve got a book called Vaast Bin and a larger Vaast Bin Project. Yes, I also harbor an idea about the role of language within the spectrum of sound and image. Yes, a bin is a box—a flux box?—is a coffin, out of which we see life between the darkness of our eyes and the night sky beyond the fictional blue of day. Because, yes, when it’s all said and undone, it’s just that little point after all . this end where everywhere is up, a period, a periodic earth-time point that halts at the shores of nothing like some sort of fever-dream before the waking coma of history or the flickering vapor of a comet’s tail in a solar wind.

So if we have Bennett’s image of potential image to hold on to, and if it can be solidified via Kostelanetz’s Visual Lit Crit anthology from which I encountered it first, let us conjure sound. And let us summon the wedding of sound via Kostelanetz’s Aural Lit Crit to the image, which is the point of Part II: How to get

to the little point .

Autobiographically, I found the sound part first, before I barely had premonitions of what the visual could be beyond good old-fashioned text. This is to also say I found John M. Bennett after I found Bliem Kern. I found a copy of Aural Literature Criticism—before I found the Visual Lit Crit—in a below-sidewalk bookstore near NYU just above Houston in NYC. This crazy little anthology was focused on sound, and in it, there was an interview-like symposium with Jackson Mac Low Charles Dodge, and Bliem Kern, which was moderated by Kostelanetz. I found Kern’s symposium comments wildly provocative, but I couldn’t say why, just then. I found this anthology before I had actually met Kostelanetz too (and eventually collaborated with him, and through whom I would also met Bennett, all of which is another story), but as far as the symposium figures, I knew only Mac Low. I had been lucky enough to meet Jackson Mac Low because of my affiliations with the composer Petr Kotik. On several occasions, I was lucky enough to give Mac Low rides home from SEM Ensemble events. But Kern’s thinking about how sound works? It remained wildly mysterious to me for a good while after that. I liked what Kern was saying in the symposium transcripts, but I had no foundation. My spine was still forming. But like Bennett’s theoretical visual poem schematic, Kern’s theoretical thinking would also come to haunt me later on—sound wise.

Even later, I found a copy of Kostelanetz’s Text-Sound Texts. What an anthology! Bliem Kern’s work is on the cover and inside too, so I had something with which to ground his earlier symposium comments. As a musician, touring and recording in Poem Rocket, I was already interested in sound. My first brush actual brush with Kern’s work, not just his symposium comments, was more like a moment of glimpsing what is possible beyond good old-fashioned text for the first time. It helped trigger the formation of a Blakean-Mac Low axis, which is now ultimately my spine. And the work of Kern and Bennett make arms or hands with which to embrace the spectrum of sound and image. Even though I was immediately captivated by Kern’s work in this third Kostelanetz anthology, the funny thing is, I still couldn’t say why—exactly—only that it was super interesting to look at and read. First encounter-wise, however, I think I must have been attracted to the visual aspects of Kern’s work, like the spacing, which was new to me, for it would fall out of wildness and back into more traditional text. I liked that he was moving in and out of both. His Meditations does that on a base level. It moves in and out of traditional and non-traditional words. From sounds with and without semantics, and then into more semantic-cum-poetic phraseology. Now I can see it more clearly: The weft of manifesto, the clusters of synonyms, the spiritualism of it, and the physics of sound and thought as material. It’s ye olde hylopathic, matter and energy equivalence thing. Kern’s work was like a codebook, a little museum of code variations. It’s like he pinned Proteus down on the cosmological beach in order to document the morphology. And if John Cage goes from meaning to non-meaning, demilitarizing language in “Empty Words” (also in Text-Sound Texts), Kern weaves in and out of the strands of meaning and non-meaning on a loom of sound combined wefted, creating a morphology that is still powerful now and still an affirmation of language’s potential.

Influential? Absolutely. Kern’s sound work is a visual delight. And Bennett’s visual work too, is a sound delight, if you’ve ever heard him read. And in this sense, the way that I think about the work of either—as works of sound-imaging—has been obscured to most others. Or dare I re-phrase it, smear’d in the big coffin of language and the usual and predictable necrophilia for the old ways. But at the same time, both Kern and Bennett are also right on time. I find it interesting that many poets today describe their work as “experimental.” And often now too, there is this intense sense of materialism about language, but for the most, it is part void of ethics. It drifts aimlessly like gorgeous Foucauldian epistemic bubble in the moonlight in the backyard of a house with many gables, barely conscious of its application. It’s virtuosity without purpose. Baroque maybe, or at worst, bad goldsmithery at the precious-metal forge of ethics. Not all of it, of course, but many of the “experiments” of today’s unicorn cavalry are procedural or pure procedure for process’s sake— or in terms of Bennett’s schematic, a poetry that is the coffin of language with a mirror aimed back on the instant of death rather than life. It’s all self-reflection of cause or all effect, let alone load- bearing any indexical relation to life, which is how reflective abstraction would indexically have it, if properly undertaken.

This is what we miss if we don’t consider the task: Visual poetry can become, with not so much as a coffin to hold on to, eye candy. So for me, it’s the indexical, schematic materialism of Bennett, his sense of sound and image that makes his work—though “Visual Poetry Reflected” is soundly historical—wildly contemporary to what is going on now. And at the same time, I’m enamored with Kern’s sound ethics: His cosmic spirituality, his Buddhist principles, or however you want to describe these elements embedded in his work. It’s all of that which makes them still “ahead of their time” or more like “right-on-time.” There’s this primal self-awareness in either that I still find invigorating in that it stirs up aperiodic thinking about death’s smeary eye’d mirror, which is purely periodic material in a genetic, Erwin Schrödinger-kind-of-way. We need the periodic materials to be re-cast, aperiodically.

Let us use Bennett’s haunting equation about death and creation and experience, to rewrite the equation of death becoming life via the coupling of image and sound:



When we juxtapose the use of sound and image, there is a new kind of power, as Bennett and Kern, when combined, can remind us. And the delayed resonance of these first encounters for me now? I’ve been working off and on for the past four years on an even stronger attempt to enact what I think is very similar to Kostelanetz’s terms “text-sound” and “sound-text.” It’s a newer work to eclipse the last Vaast Bin series, and I have been calling it sound-imaging all along, but because these first encounters have resonated over this expanse of time, I’ve a better means to adjust the mechanics. This is what you get when you combine the hands of sound and image. It’s sound-imaging, something you can hold on to, as in the sound solid and sound aural, and both at once, as a means of addressing the ethical urgency in both composition and performance. Sometimes I’m more visual. Sometimes more traditionally text-based. Sometimes more sound-oriented. And I inhabit and explore these areas. Sometimes, I employ variations of these on the sound-imaging spectrum, as needed, for the ethics of ideations. Performance is all about sound, and I use it in a number of ways and in a number of registers, depending on the work at hand.

Knowing how, as the Bennettian schematic suggests, when combined with the necessary kerning of sound as part of the activation of the visual matters at hand, can create new ethical resonances. That interview-like symposium in Aural Literature Criticism has haunted me for years, and especially now, because Kern’s words speak more strongly than ever to what I am also trying to do by way of the Bennettian schematic. “The world began in sound,” Kern said. “I say from vibration of matter we have sound and from vibration of matter we have light.” And if that isn’t life animating, I don’t know whatis.Sothereitis,pilotsofthevisual: Soundleadstolightandthepossibilityofseeingagain. It’s not some origin-quest or some Russian Formalist fantasy, though it’s as formal as a Bennettian schematic can be. It’s not some Levi-Straussian induced dream of structuralism as a paleontological means of accessing an ur-text song, though it is structurally sound-based. Sound-imaging is a means to know ends, and too, to hear ur here. It’s primal, and it’s both an ethical means and an aim at pure aperiodic creation, something that breaks the old patterns of mere reflection. Holy Karst, Batman. Echolocate this point for yourself. The kern’d acoustics I speak of are not that far-fetched, and the Bennettian schematics are sound solid: Image can lead us to new sounds, and new sounds can lead us to new images of new life, where we might be more clear-eyed, reclining on the backrest of the binnish coffin of poetry. Sound-imaging is a process of reflective abstraction, and that local piloting is part of the point of


getting to the vaward tip of this urthy little

terrestrial point