William Fuller

1989 • 80 pp. • $12.00
ISBN: 9781882022014

Out of Print

The title refers to the Russian Constructivists. Fuller’s writing has a lucid and at the same time hallucinatory quality as if pressing one’s /his reciprocal relations to the world so closely that ‘they’ appear spectrally but exactly: “That this act distorts me is a function, precisely, of your putative silence. Lifted above your head, thought discloses three of us. The street is rutted with life, spectrally washing hand and hand.”

William Fuller is an American poet who was born in 1953 in Barrington, Illinois. He received a Ph.D. in English from the University of Virginia in 1983 and published his first full-length book, BYT, with the Oakland-based O Books in 1989. His other books are THE SUGAR BORDES (O Books, 1993), AETHER (Gaz, 1998), SADLY (Flood Editions, 2003), WATCHWORD (Flood Editions, 2006), and HALLUCINATION (Flood Editions, 2011). His chapbooks include The Coal Jealousies (1987), THE CENTRAL READER (Paradigm Press, 1999), Three Poems (2000), Roll (2000), Avoid Activity (2003), and Dry Land (2006). He is chief fiduciary officer of the Northern Trust Company in Chicago.



Acting out the sequence of bizarre days on the grid of any other lexicon would only nullify my giving access to them (that is, in moves that exist because something ongoing will not accumulate beyond just another word). As the spectator discovers, profusion (the unstinting discernment working inside what one sees) is the idea’s attempt to open up a younger now. Bathed inwardly by an escalating knowledge, it forces desire up and out, phrasing the sediment in terms of each of us then present, its expression endemic to the chronic bistro’s account of what you thrust in your hand for: it primes you inside the nostalgically raving I. Thus what reading means, and for whose sake its agenda persists, matters less than the sheets drawn up for the speculation.

With my back turned it surrounds me like a text, that feral grove, this hurry home. From its territorial egg the One steps out. The high widening fanes hold their tops against the snow. The same complex again and again shuffles in the cry, directed here, at the slip-screen, at the body where this other body plays, pliably distant, critically formed at arms length to its axis.

Weathered enclosure caked with rind. The drop-date drifts past. The shadows have moved on.

The risen day wanders in any direction to undulate. Its object crusts up perception, sprung lost to use or sack of air.

In uncertain conditions the voice will coax. Rutted between cusps of torsion, the line forms a skin on the throat, elaborates its depth.

Days clasp hands in

the aspic windows

Wide through the chain of spaces secrets metabolize and float what reading does. Time inscribes the id of wind and its induction, and Africa clears the structure-tops in actual virtual air. From the margin of its vagrancy it returns a center to writing, the flavors of the sleep I want.

Instinct cuts down a line tracing away, archaically, in love, whose pure privilege is now. Its efficacy is shown by the buried station and time transposed at the point.

Even ‘the smallest flow can be a meal’ is a meal. The body bares a stage on which a floating tangle toys, its spandrelled insane thickenings, its membrane of silence and one’s own breath.