exit interview 1. the artaudless islands

The anarchist popstar had a baby with the billionaire's son.  It's a green gray blur of guns and money.  It was a sly proof for those who needed it that she didn't really mean what she said.  The syntactical evidence of poetry without the frame of poetry is like a crime that is much more criminal.  Or rather, if it is not in the frame of poetry poetry is evidence, mostly, of a lack of sense.  This is the poet-critic, that proof for the academy and its attendant institutions  that the disjunction and schizoid form of contemporary verse is aesthetic, not organic. There'd be no Artaud here. Or rather, there is only maybe Artaud, but not on these islands. There were seas (these were, though it sounds impossible, rabid seas).  There were islands (these were, though it sounds impossible, islands devoted to elaborate architectures of rationality whose residents also ritualized the rabid seas). There were certain conventions at these times: to fly, to conference, to panel, to anthologize.  In other circles it was to contest, submit, or award.   I'd never been granted anything.  I was perfectly willing to assign to my own refusal some sort of pathology. What would I retrieve?