Everything I write requires this: Alphabet. It was a notion I did not know when I was six years old. In kindergarten I was more interested in the image of a letter on a flash card. I noticed its shape distinguishing itself from its background. Then, with my eyes I tore the O in half. […]
The zero is not a circle; it’s an empty clock. And the clock is an o which rolls to the other side of the page. But the c stuck between the b and d eats itself and the page will taste how desperate language is. If you peel a sheet of paper, you will find […]
A man in a black suit with a zero for a head follows me. He carries a gun shaped like language; wants me written and dead on the page. He can smell my bleach-stained letters and can taste what I have written; the inked bones of words. But he cannot hear me breathe. Silence is […]
Orlando White talks about determining the form a poem will take.
Orlando White on the genesis of his “i-j” poems.