Alex recently gave me three new works:
The one with the black cover has no title. Inside the cover is a single sheet of paper, folded so there are four pages. Other than a note of copyright, there is only one page with text (the scan doesn’t reproduce the mottled whiteness of the paper or the beautiful fading from line to line):
It turns out that words empty of the physical world empty the physical world and empty us. It’s a brilliant sequence, I think. Words are physical. The flesh is made word. The good book has it backward.
Alex’s “METANYMS” are poems that begin with a word and then progress from synonym to synonym until they arrive at a word of quite a different color. “truth,” for instance, wanders from “fact” to “gospel” to “openness” to “reveal” [a Heideggerian thought] to “stretch” to “range” to “fluctuate” to “wander.” Truth is a mobile army of metaphors, Nietzsche argued. Alex performs that thought in an elegantly thin little book in which four metanyms are beautifully arrayed on long pages.
Wet Mouth.8, the longest of these three, has an epigraph from the Tao Teh Ching:
The hidden and the manifest / give birth to each other.
A “Post-Preface” tells readers that “this is the 8th version of Wet Mouth. Each version gave birth to a succeeding one. The spacing and the punctuations hanging in mid air refer to words and grammatical functions from previous versions.”
In other words, what has been excised from successive versions remains present as absence. The result—poems that fight for meaning, that investigate language, that perform what they say—is dreamlike:
first, words were ways to keep
silent before images
not unlike a life a breath
to give to the air
my last as a
conscious being who could choose and decide
as nothing else
could or else be quiet which is best which is best
Perhaps, I think as I read Alex’s poems, all our texts are arrangements of words about which we have forgotten that meaning and meaningless are not opposites. Wakefulness may well be simple forgetfulness of the substance of our dreams. Pre-sence and ab-sence are both sence-ual.
Part v. of Wet Mouth.8 is two pages long. The two poems follow the title
v. Mute knowledge
you wouldnt believe your hands.
Nor, I am tempted to say, do I believe this book. Rather: I wander through it, it opens me, I kiss it deeply, I devour it, I shit it out and read my excrement. My profound absence is made present. My presence is hidden. My mind is my body. I sing this book as a hymn to the night: Wet Mouth.9