To find words over a shoulder- the poet as voyeur. I flew a kite with him once before his dad shot him.
Call it dada, sampling, voyeurism, piece meal postmodern overheard prose, anything. Undertheorized, oversimplified, like looking at mountains you'll walk, that's the point- it's simple. People say the most (in)sight full things. My sister's birthday's in August. When I was little I thought, how the hell does that work. Doesn't make any sense.
It's in the words, falling from between teeth every day, spastic, crowded, and existing like land. Maybe Language for you. Whatever you want. For me it's just there, the syllable making up moments in bars and gas stations, days, and waiting to be listened to, spied on, then maybe written down, twisted out. The frame to be broken. Thrills me. Fuck the property out of it. And the pretense that poetry's from the soul. It's out there. Breath, right? Nobody's words are there own, so rip them off. Then build with them.
Montage. Pieces of language as material. Plural. Words put next to words. Not some falsity of dialect, either. The real thing overheard. Get them down, hear it, write it, graft them, juxtaposed for strength or hollow, or verbatim. Transcription, but interrupted. The way you put it together becomes disjunctive. Or not. Build from your skull a collective head - voice over voice or on. Sick, dripping, gorgeous, whatever. Make them yours.
Conversational stealing 'a la x. A searching through language.
Because it's all just like dirt - there and brilliant in mounds.
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