Ruby Street

Writing comes from the body, out of the senses and rhythms of the body. The interstitial and the uncertainty in immanence is part of that process. Sense data arrives on moments. Bodily syntax isn’t smooth. The body has its digressions that the thinking body theorises. Memory is made up of fragment and trace. A heart has its arrhythmias. As do words, so hard consonants disrupt mellifluous vowels. Thus, a rhythm. For instance, whenever my writing starts en plein air, so to speak, I am not just employing an observational mode. And when I make poems with a broken or collaged narrative, that can emerge from acts of walking, changing trains, changing travel modes, the coming and going of bodies, voices, weathers. It is a continuing exploration of language and location. Fracture and discontinuity are real experiences of energy and movement. Poems are made with the materials of this world, its languages, its scratchings and surfaces, its keys and screens, as well as the poet’s body and lif...

The map of the city almost means itself, flattened in my hand, almost but never flat. Ridges of cartographic data made by folding. How will the line fold here?

look at the sun along the off-white afternoon over my shoulder memory speaks through heroic ideal shivered beauty lashed by cold light your questions lip air go out fall to ruin walk ordinary matter

poet wanders the page imprint chasing a trail through poems fugitive ghost phantom presences aura what is noise in the poem the subjective relation to others what is important in a poem at the edges

Rising with air, breath's desperate ages loud music carries all its times with smoked out clarity as well Nerves flower out my bare need knowledge, I found skin, and underneath day slowly wears, moved by turn And clouds don’t ‘need to know’ and being moves a new overlay out here the valley, goes how

a poem is as it passes

I = wandering new trails

a trace at the point where a poem differentiates itself from flux of experience the fragmentary or incomplete