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Disintegration and Other Poems
Disintegration and Other Poems in Bloomington, MN
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"Jeff Fort's
Disintegration
is like a mysterious peacock's plumage: from the start you are swimming in strange beauty, as you slowly recognize that it has many eyes. The book has one eye on the experimental traditions of modernist invention, one on the catastrophe of the present, another eye on dreams, another still with a precise eye on language. But finally it has all eyes on something else: 'what matters is pure utopia, ' as it reminds us, against forgetting, against blindness."-Joshua Clover, author of
The Totality for Kids
(UC Press) and
Red Epic
(Commune Editions)
"Disintegration
is a 'thinking thing, ' a 'thinking kind of thread.' A 'murmur, ' it says of itself, or a buzz or a rattle. I would say it's a song, mostly muffled, with an on-and-off beat, at the tail end of human life on earth. It's 'the call of all that's left.' You can see as well as hear it in letters that come apart, change places, drop out and misspell the words that try even now to gather up the whole business, remember, and return someplace. Home? They ring with a hollow ring that is a ring nonetheless-a strange, unfamiliar sound, for all its obsolescence. The 'call of all that's left' is something unexpected; it is new."
-Ann Smock, author of
The Play of Light: Jacques Roubaud, Emmanuel Hocquard and Friends
(SUNY Press)
Disintegration
is like a mysterious peacock's plumage: from the start you are swimming in strange beauty, as you slowly recognize that it has many eyes. The book has one eye on the experimental traditions of modernist invention, one on the catastrophe of the present, another eye on dreams, another still with a precise eye on language. But finally it has all eyes on something else: 'what matters is pure utopia, ' as it reminds us, against forgetting, against blindness."-Joshua Clover, author of
The Totality for Kids
(UC Press) and
Red Epic
(Commune Editions)
"Disintegration
is a 'thinking thing, ' a 'thinking kind of thread.' A 'murmur, ' it says of itself, or a buzz or a rattle. I would say it's a song, mostly muffled, with an on-and-off beat, at the tail end of human life on earth. It's 'the call of all that's left.' You can see as well as hear it in letters that come apart, change places, drop out and misspell the words that try even now to gather up the whole business, remember, and return someplace. Home? They ring with a hollow ring that is a ring nonetheless-a strange, unfamiliar sound, for all its obsolescence. The 'call of all that's left' is something unexpected; it is new."
-Ann Smock, author of
The Play of Light: Jacques Roubaud, Emmanuel Hocquard and Friends
(SUNY Press)
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