Thursday, 02.18:
On Evolution by Eileen Myles:
I walked away from it but kept coming back, caught up in the book’s immediacy. Frank O’Hara’s ghost shining here, yes, but also wow and then mehh and then just drawn into the now-and-now-and-now of the poems’ tracking their own making, as if the alphabet itself were tracks appearing in the snow of my screen. I could *feel* the writer thinking, selecting, almost in real time, or non-time, in that space where language comes to us in its varied incessant patterning.
Reads in the Trees 