Think of a long
drone, full of all kinds of overtones. Maybe you can hardly hear
doesn’t make sense. Yet every bit you
care to look at does, any part you take for itself. Music goes on.
A fascicle is
a bundle, a little one, part of a presumable whole. It is a gathering
of leaves, convenient to handle. A section
has been taken, clearly, from a not
necessarily determined volume. Think of a beechwood in winter, with mast and
wind-snapped twigs crisp underfoot, with stiff and stained foliage.
is an annual poetry and poetics periodical. It takes the form of
a mythic being, if you like, head and shoulders
of a human, but body of a
horse or goat, fish or squid. Any place an author or curator cuts, there is
a face. A fabulous creator is evoked. An imaginary poem is
decided upon. Each ‘critical‘ genre
begins with a head, in this way, as well, an individual chapter or a talk,
but the tail is held in common. The edges remain monstrous
and the rest tapers away.