Of All The Corners to Forget
by Gian Lombardo

ISBN: 0-923389-68-7
Meeting Eyes Bindery (NYC), 2004
80 pp., softbound, 5.5" x 8.5"
cover painting by Kay Sage

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On the surface, the prose poems in Of All The Corners To Forget appear quietly delicate, but if you dig a little bit they present an intellect at work exploring the fabric of perception. The simple structures and language of these prose poems embody a complexity of ideas — that whatever is stated is never fully present, that the expected is never truly realized. Through resonances, the interplay of rhythm and repetition, through the skewering of everyday language and clichés, through gently insistent negations and a ghostly narrative sometimes impossible to pin down, Lombardo’s Of All The Corners To Forget reminds us that the relation of truth is not only subject to its presentation, but also in the discovery that truth resides in the place where perspective and expression collapse.

From Of All The Corners to Forget...

To The Point

I can’t tell you about it. It’s what I have been telling you about. This inability to explain, describe.

Describe what I’m unable. I’ve experienced, I’ve shuddered, but who’d believe?

Believe me, I haven’t said anything yet. But you say you’ve heard it all before. Before I could begin to tell you about it.

Devil Of A Time

Many, many times I’ve thought about arming myself against barbarians. But I couldn’t decide whether a barbarian was someone I wouldn’t recognize, or whether it was someone I couldn’t understand.

Either way, I believe I’d end up with too many barbarians.

I believe if I need an enemy to protect myself from, it’s better to have a particular enemy — one I’d know was a threat.

But if I recognized that threat, wouldn’t that be something familiar? I’ve got the feeling I’d be contravening myself.

In that case, I’d guess I’d have to be out of sorts, being something beside myself.

Preparation (Make-Ready)

Subsequent dreams were laden with arms carrying flags. Rows and rows filing by, each marcher weighed down with bundles mistaken for swaddling, humming what could not be a lullaby. They slept not, but swept across the landscape line after line. Each filament with its own melody. Illuminated by music there’d still be a few that stumbled. Once fallen, they tire of watching the parade — where from the ground, they stretch, yawn and proceed, off key, to dream.

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