Release came through a number of straight-up friends involved in strange poetry scenes
producing, engaging, crying out from their platforms the language of milk and cocaine.

Their pursuit was for a vocabulary as open as typeface—freakish, tender and vague
with sturdy legs for the route and a pointer finger pinned to riposte aesthetic stability

masquerading as laced counterpoint, polishing paradigms. For those overcome by
the advent of texts anisomorphic to antique arrangements, an ascendant tool like

a Prophet was forged to amass manifold forms sanctioning a stance Less Than Flat;
Other to Stasis. In the polyglot of formality, porousness is an apropos term to play

but easy does the reassignation: hosting origins always was a vulnerable interface
(in truth, a kind of game) with nothing to prevent redistribution under Glück’s name.

Any apparently random construction can disrupt the gallery’s unbroken view of
the stage, with an aisle no longer straight and the cheap seats loving the mess

in a multiplicity of ways. The odd feat of dropping a book delivers the same distortion
to consistent systematicity: you might dub it, or dig it, an incoherent inclination,

a degustation inspired by the swiftness with which you reframe its content to taste.
Tension clustered within hosted material tolerates imminent juxtaposition of form,

engendering a fierce and unreasonable loathing if you hasten to admit the distance
borne of inexhaustible oscillations; of non-narratological leaps over the lion of genre.

Like performance for the sake of convenience, assigning category is an unsavoury act.
Some plastics have the property to feel their way along alignments and spill over into

the impossibility of an answer. Hence we are empathetic to the sentiment of puzzles.
How concrete is Heaven contrived? To obfuscate means never having to infer a reply.

We’ve discovered not to force or agitate differentiation. Revelations all will pass in time as
parboiled poetry pre-packaged that way, carapace to an oozing that lasts hours and hours.

The clever use of instruments can gauge enough feasible space to land—and so we do,
resisting the anointments of conservative outlets and buffs from the cuff of descriptors.

Titles are vetted; subjects subsumed. The material of formalism casts a holed presence
while its terrain enables an explosion of no implicit morals. Wellspringed depths rise in

contradistinction to notions as patterned as the intricacies of serving matcha tea.
Without release or conditioning by media, progression would dissolve instead of

washing down a drain plastered by vigour and array. Who lives to amputate a limb that
might be saved? There are hardly any clouds bar those of soaring systems to embrace.
 

Acknowledgments to Tan Lin and J. Gordon Faylor