The Poetics of Punching had its start with the obsessed-with-its-own-surface poems of my first ‘zine, MY FIST IS A BOOK OF ETHICS; its midpoint in the efforts to fill out the middle with what I thought might be a good ‘subtle middle stuff’- color- in COLORS MORE COLORS; and now finds a terminus of sorts in IT’S HERE THAT I AM COMFORTABLE WITH MYSELF, HERE THAT I HAVE FRIENDS, which is marked mostly by a desire to leave behind, or a being-tired-of, the minutiae of high resolution (and “colorless”) language fuckery ala ETHICS, and a similar desire for a simple tactility (e.g. cops + knuckles, the allusion of a single finger tracing the surface of some body, etc.). Really all of this is to say that if ETHICS and COLORS form a sort of FORM/ CONTENT binary, in no way does FRIENDS synthesize, complete, or solve whatever conundrums they’ve built together: mostly it’s a sort of middle-term in the sense that you can see a little bit of each in the whole of the work.
There are nine poems, two of which are nameless, one of which bears the name of the zine (and/ or vice versa), one of which is a reprise (“Reprise”), one of which is a footnote to the poem that immediately precedes it (“Footnote to the Previous Poem”), the remaining three are entitled “Real Life as a Real Concept,” “The Work of Stones, The Work of Knuckles,” and “The Tactile Stuff of Ghost,” respectively.
If you think about it/ and or “do the math,” that comes to only 22.222222222 ad infinitum cents per poem, which is both less than a quarter but also somehow suggests that you’ll being paying for this for the rest of your life.