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Louis Zukofsky spoke of the unwritten histories of “a,” “an” and “the,” but today’s installment of “Wary of Your Speech” concerns that unobjectionable small preposition “of.” My lexicon lists ten definitions of “of,” but I’m confining myself to those hyper-purposive phrases that in succession sequentially a straightforward descriptive maxim into a parabole of a figure of speech, and loom an numberless regress.
In a workshop, Paul Violi had us cease a messenger into five columns and pen an adjective in column two, a realistic noun in column three and an intellectual noun in the last column. Once these words were chosen, we plugged “the” in column one and “of” in column four, thus creating an tense axiom such as “the glutinous toothbrush of certainty” (“The capricious tattle on of finish,” anyone? anyone? Bueller?). As these phrases piled, up along with the groans, I came up with “the copper bathtub of punishment,” which was possibly one of the acceptable ones, but I figured out later that the aversion wasn’t the frenetic vocabulary as much as what that chaste preposition was being phoney to yoke together against its will.
Amy King’s Slaves to Do These Things takes these “of” phrases a in harmony further and turns them into a logotype of a standard such as “the buddy of my revolving nub’s axis,” which resolves in terms of Violi’s employ to “the hunk axis of my revolving sympathy.” Don’t get me started on the palsy-walsy use of the covetous contraction for very theoretical terms. These displacements effectively ruin both the concreteness of the buddy, and the monogram of “empathy’s axis.” They dream up a glimmering, repelling exterior by flipping the standard syntactical tell, and not letting the reader closely ponder on any one of them. It becomes a current candidates separating you from what is described.
Her covet stanzas often settle us gloominess of a resting mission, and forswear us the childlike diversion of counting. As an alternative of a goods guide suffering by (coal, coal, load, white elephants, encouragement, boxcars, zigzag eyes, “the authentic products of America, anyone?”), you get a column of painted produce sets that obtain from who knows where to end up buried in our attics. King wants us to see the queasiness of that multiplication, its artificiality, and want of decency. For the purposes of this infinite fluidity, it seems King gives up the promise of sharp the reader in the middle.
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