Too abouty. I find this hand drawn criticism in some poetry volumes, beside selections in lit mags or anthologies that I prowled through a few years ago in my hey day of policing anything that appeared too blindly trusting of the signfier. This was the same period of time I stopped listening to music with lyrics because it seemed to incessantly reduce (intrude upon) the scope of the music’s (own) (thousands of) possiblities. A straight diet of IDM and prepared pianos if only to stay away from the iron-clad Thought/Point A and Word/Point B. Now I hear and read Thought/Point A, Word/Point X, Y, Z. Don’t know if this is always being asked of the work, but it’s my reading condition.

What got me toward a charge of Aboutiness in my own writing lately: First I thought, I don’t want to write “good” poems, just poems. Then, I don’t want to write poems, I just want to write. I don’t know if this is mathematical. Euclid was a three-block street, with, I think, a Ben & Jerry’s ice cream.