"I recognize it in myself by this: that all possible objects of the ordinary world, external or internal, beings, events, feelings, and actions, while keeping their usual appearance, are suddenly placed in an indefinable but wonderfully fitting relationship with the modes of our general sensibility. That is to say that these well-known things and beings - or rather the ideas that represent them - somehow change in value. They attract one another, they are connected in ways different from the ordinary; they become (if you will permit the expression) musicalized, resonant, and, as it were, musically related. The poetic universe, thus defined, offers extensive analogies with what we can postulate of the dream world... "A poet's function - do not be startled by this remark - is not to experience the poetic state: that is a private affair. His function is to create it in others." - Paul Valery, "Poetry and Abstract Thought"["Dante thought so too" - Uncle Waldo] - Henry Gould
The whole of which Loss Glazier's The Parts is a small, refreshing part is a poetic universe fallen into sin/sign/synecdoche. Charles Olson an early opponent of idle lyricism called for a "middle voice", little knowing that a sober middle voice, neither inspired nor dis-re-despaired, could emerge from the particulated nonspeech verbal medium of language poetry. Sober, but funny! There are bits of Olson seeping through these poems:
As with the hundreds of files
per dye formulation (but see
it's not the number as much as
the "patching" - weave as the
ply resulting in branches seem to
make it find. Sheer exhaustion!
a part of sense of what does pry
apart. Until on the "line" other
issue of this. It's as if the alert
where its brambles from the Fort
here and see with you who wrote
'not about bits, bytes, bells or whistles'
D-town...your words on screen
marked as people's next-in-order.
This is from a poem called "The Com'ns" - with the word INTERNET stamped in bold oddly above the title. Yon book reviewer finds much in this little excerpt to illustrate the "whole". To digress though: many of these poems are wit-sly satires - the opener, called "The Apex", a serious (in the Olson way) send-up of Apex of the M calls for a "transparent" revolutionary poetry - which argues (by example) that poetry's pith, spine, whatever, is to be both opaque-resistant AND responsive-expressive (politically relevant). Glazier's Apex satire though is a subset of the writing throughout the chipbk - which takes apart both utilitarian mechano-chatter and obsolete poetic phrasing from an exact middle-voice midpoint - that zone of Glazier's special position - AS AN EXHAUSTED INFORMATION SUPERHIGHWAY WORKER GRUNT. ("Sheer exhaustion!") (Poetry does not / gain from mummified speech. - from the final [title] poem.)
There is a real speaker standing paradoxically behind the syntactically rhythmically and typesetfully SHREDDED bits & bytes of these poems - who "places" poetry as a part of computerized "speech" overkill - the worldwide web as a bizarre cocoon or womb drifting with bits of dead speech-food - yet each bit reflecting some origin or history, not devalued or dehumanized but ironized like iron filings not yet translated. Here is the beginning of the prose piece "How I was Attila in a Past Life":
"Losing its words. Take some aegis or exit point where alpha types disperse. The family grows old and leaves without you. There was some hook to holdings how the etzels regenerated. The 'rod and cones' of it. As it was penned, the bull waited to bolt forward but the human cannot wait until sunrise. Hence dismemberment makes a myth of words salving a permuted path."
This last sentence - the image of weaving/dismemberment appears here & there - the archaic or archetypal suddenly showing beneath the techno- jargon. From "Five pieces for Sound File" (a funny little set maybe written in England(?) - pathos of the nowhere bumping against the immemorial):
on the verge - that constituent contact
ends - though I'm no diner King -
it meant so much and again will
break his I - does it falter?
Like the note passed in the row ahead
these men's books are the whole of language
how we navigate only - piecemeal
- there is the shadow of Old Ez visiting Londres here and readying his fractions. Glazier has put together a breathing chaos. As the physicists are starting to repeat ad nauseam, chaos is a species of order, the part is an empty promise of an inescapable whole, the whole of poetry breathing underneath the robotic shim of shunted language-bearers. The Parts, perhaps are part of the fibrillated stone wheel of the mother-demon Coatlicue pulled up from a Mexico City subway excavation, alive, breathing and terrible to behold in her furious dismemberment WHEELING AROUND AND AROUND NOW IN THE MUSE'UM of walk-walk-talk-talk. This is a cool and hilarious little book. Here's the last 2 stanzas:
"Elipsis" is incision point and
conversely prolapsed. Whether there's
a break for want - strong pull-time
passes. Kin to "living" in a period
of adapted measure. There should only
be one book; texts weave through that.