Today the 3rd anniversary of my marriage to Shenxin. I've been trying to write more poetry in the past few days, and have been struck by how strange it feels. I also spent over seventy dollars buying poetry books today.

I know too little about either of these writers to make any point about this sentence, which struck me as I read what Ron Silliman had to say today: "Walter Benjamin – him I see as philosophy’s Jack Spicer. Both were obsessed with the task of the translator." It may be the closest Silliman has ever gotten in his poetics to discussing the element of translation in any meaningful way, and if he hadn't closed his comments box (a temporary move that, given the nastiness that had been percolating within, I support) I'd ask him to expand. Maybe I'll email him and make the suggestion...

I'm reminded that I was handed this blog because I wanted to comment on someone else's post. My comment, go figure, was about Silliman and his absent awareness of translation. Once I believed I could never escape Ezra Pound; now I wonder if I'll ever be able to escape Ron Silliman.