cHaNgE

Inish’s poetry mines electric articulations out of the discontinuity that written language inevitably subjects us to, and the affective misdirection it can generate by requiring us to reconstitute a disembodied subjectivity. There is a higher realism in Inish’s deeply material engagement with language, in its enactment of the uncertainties, de- and re-contextualizations, disappearances, and strange adjacencies endemic to writing. This all seems poetry conceptualism, with its faithfulness to the state of textualized bewilderment in which we spend increasing amounts of our time. And while it makes little threat of becoming too standard a model for verisimilitude, it is, in its austerely zany realism, both a faithful document of textual experience and a joy.