Poetry. Art is no consolation, but it is art. Rod Smith sends us this "thinking event of the pulse fetish tone handle" from America's capital, where each day blank, pig-eyed men, hissing a kind of English work toward the further redistribution of wealth from the children of the underclasses to the orbiting robots of capital. Tinned and untinned, Smith's art speaks in resistance to treachery, and on behalf of several suppressed tendencies and human possibilities, some new, some older than agriculture. "A fringe limitation / structures history," but "no analysand can indent this largesse" -Kevin Davies.
