Today I pay homage to Lyn Hejinian, whose work has been a constant in my development as a poet. There’s a kind of review that was practiced by Tristan Tzara (on the art of Hans Arp, for example), that reflects on the work by writing a performance of it. I read Hejinian to think, or rather to swerve thought off its accustomed course: thought splaying light, scalpel applied to scalpel and its tunes. Cognition as prism, tinfoil held upside down. How to begin? How to continue? Without conformity.
Below are three poems from “Punctual,” in The Cold of Poetry.
Rogue Embryo 