Actually I'm cold sitting here
at the typewriter on my lunch hour
naked and exhausted from masturbating
all morning to create the right mood
for poetry uninvolved in the ego
like the' 'actualist poetry" of the
early 70s with which I was associated
without my foreknowledge or permission
or agreement or even knowing what they
meant by that term.
It
had something
to do with the reproduction of
objects in "the poem" as though
they were' 'actual" not
transcendy!
In
some poetry circles craftsmanship is
considered to be a dazzling array of
chromatic effects that draws our attention
like a physical presence, but to us
superrealists on the nonhierarchical
ladder of self esteem the elusiveness of
technique in a savage amalgam of clarity
avoids value judgments as to what ought
to be deceptive or enthusiastic toward
the unimaginative and divides the universe
into something spilled and something
wiped up. This is one example.
