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Paul Buck
no title

62 pages
ISBN 0-937013-38-2


It's like a series of slippery facets around a collection of precipices -- just when you think you understand you fall over. To use words which move into silence / emptiness -- without fuss -- without shouting or drawing attention to themselves -- simply stepping over the edge, calmly.
--David Barton

comments of earlier work

Your poem Paul is beautiful: all day I've been thinking of interstices, interstices of the night, the grid where (in blackness) you can't perceive connections so everything is the holes of the grid, things just as they are, the holes. I've been reading Husserl lately. Your poem is there: the set-up theater grids or social perceptions: everything gook mushes the holes oh. Oh.
--Kathy Acker