Sometimes I almost feel like Purge is only a prosthetic, a paratext of [Jack Spicer’s] Admonitions, a more synthetic, plastic manifestation of what Spicer accomplished so nimbly. Both of us are interested in this fetishized notion that there is an objective reality, a reality of “feelings” that can be played with. Instead, we try to seduce a reader into sustaining his own fantasy via the work. Think of the femme fatale in a noir whose “cheating husband” is only an excuse for her to make her bid for power. The poem of my “authentic feeling” becomes the toy surface upon which the desires of others are inscribed. I guess the kind of poem I like to make is kind of like a dildo—it blurs the line between prosthetic material and inarticulable sensation, artificial performance and the “real” of libidinal pleasure. It questions subjectivity through its own objecthood.
The Compleat Purge is still available as a bargain bin ménage à trois otherwise known as “subscription.”