Dear Decentered Anthology:
I must convey to you a respectful confusion—
You have gathered together both the raw and the cooked, a compound object at once harmonious as any book and already revealing the bright-colored promise of interruption. But certainly you can see my embarrassment at what you called, regarding the present market for measured manners of diversity, “the infinitely more exotic, more fascinating and more disgusting alliance between anonymity and identity.” As Diderot would say, classification is a kind of stew that exceeds the contour of its actual substances.
To suggest that the possession of the reader by atomic fissures of oddity causes more than ignorant scribbling is like rediscovering the necessary violence for culture to be actually cultivated.
But one deserves to thank, not fear, the shiny angel of recrudescence. Poets have long recognized that nature peeled of all its naturalness is allied to the living but illegible urbanism of our other city. Any other consideration unduly hierarchizes us and leaves our lips heavy with the false, though edible, divide of sweet/sour.
An elastic force, you see, can be found in every element, even in the linear brushwork of January. Look—here it is in front of you, garbed in visual poems made up of simple squares and bright-colored katakana characters. You should know as it was you who planned for your fortune to be brought, on a red lacquered tray, right to your table.
But how one exorcises sense from its preliminary substitute is not so simple, is it? It has to do with the delicacy of fingers, the necessary struggle between the potter and the somehow age-old and experimental aesthetic of her functional vase.
In short, I slide by on marine bodies that can absorb what the pleasurable phrase designates, a labor I need to tirelessly perform in order to retain the creamy freshness of opacity. Nevertheless, the estimation of the public always wishes to pierce through the carbon nakedness of my name. Beneath the extended shade of popular merchandise, I only wish to contribute a little yolk to this caramelized post-war luster.
I will forward to you the result—whether it is clear or white or another color as scentless and believable as defection.