Amidst other loud noises, something else emerged
in Henniker: quiet, at first, & then deafening, yet only
to me. Steve seemed like a quiet Midwestern kid.
Beneath a corn-fed exterior, he had a maverick streak.
We finalized a friendship, formed from seeing what
we had here. This poetry plateau paraded its points
towards a tepid center. We both felt beckoned by
the avant-garde, its brainish insistence on seeing past
cliché. The Internet was emerging as a new Wild West
for the avant-garde to play around in— we wanted in.
Chicago was Steve’s promised land. As the Aughts
extended its parameters, as we were deadly serious
(others, more casual in Henniker, showed off their
money, cultivated their connections), I took the dare,
found myself in Palatine. The Midwest impressed itself
on me: flatlands, everything spaced at odd angles (unlike
the East Coast’s loaded clusters), more presence, liveliness
to the firmament (sky seemed to reach down, do a scoop),
bungalows arrayed everywhere. Steve had ins with the scene—
we assaulted Chicago, hungrily, which happened to be
crawling with avant-gardists at that time. It was a dream—
to really pierce into a foreign, unexpected city, exotically.
No way, still, to see where it might lead. Out in Palatine,
Steve crafted calculated moves. He produced books hewn
of disjuncture, skewered direction, historical lampoons.
We saw the same things happen, around the international
avant-garde, at the same time. Our online routes were similar.
What you did in the city was assault rifles displayed. Mister.
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