Statistically Improbable Phrases






I am taking on Concordia’s Graphic Novel course in the fall and am rebuilding the entire thing.

Bart Beaty and Benjamin Woo’s The Greatest Comic Book of All Time:
Symbolic Capital and the Field of American Comic Books
has been enormously helpful, as has Beaty’s Comics versus Art. The latter patiently explains why various formalist definitions of comics in general and the graphic novel in particular all fail: the term “graphic novel” only makes sense discursively. That is, because all of the existing definitions end up excluding important examples in some way, you have to look at who uses the term, and its historical and geographic contexts, in order to figure out why they’re using it. For Beaty and Woo, the term is largely aspirational — that is, over the last half of the 20th century, it appears consistently in arguments about how and why comics can “do more” in their attempt to escape from their lowbrow status. The former uses a variety of approaches, including cultural analytics, to interrogate various sacred truths about the comics canon that has emerged since the 1980s.

These are compelling, carefully argued books. I don’t agree with everything in them, of course (I have some things to say about their argument about Martin Vaughn-James’ The Cage, for example), and neither will you, but they scratch a lot of my itches.


I was trying to remember the last time I cared about an album, which is a more interesting question than what that album was. What I realized was that one reason that I don’t care as much any more is that thew risk in discovering new music is much, much lower than it was when I first started buying LPs in the 1970s.

Before I had a job, an album cost several weeks of allowance. I might get one on my birthday, but a poor choice was worse than a new pair of socks because it reflected on my poor taste rather than someone else’s.

After I had my first job, an album was still at least two hours’ worth of wages. To make that kind of investment, the payoff had to be substantial in terms of both the content (did it have enough good songs?) and the cultural capital accrued from my friends by boasting that I’d just bought it. Once I had a cassette deck, in high school, saving up for a box of UDXLII-90s, each of which could usually contain a full album on each side, took longer but was far more cost-effective.

Buying and taping both required discernment. You bought or taped what you heard on the radio or what your friends had played for you because it called to you — that is, you did it to fit in to some sort of ideological imperative. But doing research outside those envelopes required more expense and more risk, in the form of buying and reading music magazines.

The year after I graduated from high school, Spin appeared, and it was my bible. Spin sharpened my taste for punk, then taught me about alternative, hip hop and afrobeat.

By the end of my undergrad years, I was sneak-reading MAXIMUMROCKNROLL and NME off the record store shelves (too much money to buy them). It turned out that punk was for rich kids because the albums were even harder to find and more expensive than usual.

MP3s removed desire, because there was such a glut of them, but they still took effort to find, download, tag and sort. I was told by a lawyer friend who works on corporate IP at high levels that music companies consider Generation X a lost cause. They sold us all our favourite music two or three times — first on LP, then on CDs and then remastered special editions. When MP3s came along, they knew we’d never buy anything again. So they played the long game and built vertically integrated platforms to capture the next generations.

Spotify strips away the risk involved in learning about anything that’s ever been commercially released. What’s not on Spotify I can locate quickly on YouTube. During the BitTorrent years, I listened almost exclusively to bootlegs and live recordings, but have lost track of that world mostly out of sloth; it’s just easier to stream because my phone is always in my pocket.

But with no risk involved in learning about new music, I have to invest less, so I care less.

The only consolation in all of this is I can play music for my kids that was never popular because it’s never been on the radio. And never will be. Still, they think that Rollins singing “Do It” by the Pink Fairies is hilarious. Which counts for something. I think.


Every time I feel like writing a poem I jam two words that don’t belong together, and I take a little trip to one of the sites on the edge of the Web. I look at it for a couple of minutes, and say, nah.

Turns out language poetry was formally identical to the results of the algorithms Amazon now uses for identifying individual texts (SIPs), and the contents of the pages that honeypots use to mislead web searches by humans and nonhumans alike to generate a little extra traffic.

Neil Hennessy and Bill Kennedy and I talked about this many years ago, when we were interested in a program called Sugarplum. Neil ended up writing a paper about it. When I told Bruce Andrews that we could replace him with a few lines of Perl, he was not amused.

So langpo poetics was correct: their writing really was all about the economy. The problem was they were looking at it from the parallax view. What we got was not more democratic poems that invited the reader to contribute to the production of meanings, but autocratic algorithms that surveilled, sorted and ultimately produced us as networked consumers.

“As one knows without saying, we do not write anymore” — F. A. Kittler


The truth of The Autobiography of Alice B. Toklas is The Bourne Identity.


Tuning signal test card, first broadcast by the BBC in 1934. Used with John Logie Baird’s 30-line mechanical televisions.

Recent Satellite-on-Satellite Violence





(and if you mention that song by orange juice i will know you for a rock critic and sneer at the downfall of you and your ilk)

I deleted my Twitter history this week. Over 22,000 tweets, written at various moments over the last decade.

I did so partly because I still could, but mostly because, as Cormac McCarthy wrote, there are events that divide lives forever into the then and the now. It was a difficult week because I lost someone important to me.

The contents of my feed was innocuous, if not banal. But it did, over time, provide a pretty good record of my shifting moods and habits. These are things that are visible to a computer working with large aggregates, but not necessarily to a person. And that was beginning to concern me.

Twitter is often rage-inducing, or at least indignance-producing. As Mike Montiero points out in _Ruined by Design_, that’s deliberate. No matter how severe, Twitter makes every problem exactly the same size, and feeds its users a steady drip of anxiety and outrage. The outrage sparks reaction, which the platform sees as engagement, “and engagement brings them money and raises their stock price” (123). In retrospect, it reminds me of watching furious Team Fortress 2 players leap into action every time Valve “rebalanced” the game. “Balance” is beside the point; goading complacent users into constant restless activity is what matters.

There’s something to be said in favour of filter bubbles.

What matters in a tweet, then, is not so much its symbolic content as the emotion it conveys. And I’d rather not share that constantly, thanks. If anything, I’ve come to think of spraying affect all over social media as a form of pollution. Twitter is an ocean choking on a gyre of emotional debris, and every sloppy collision puts dollars in someone’s pocket.

What I am looking for now is a form of sustainable online presence.

I deactivated my Facebook account on 2014-07-06, and good riddance to it. Throughout the process, Facebook was there the whole time, whispering in my ear, enabling: “Are you sure? You’re going to miss your friends.” When I finally reached the end of their emotional gauntlet, it was a pleasure to push the button.

Killing my Twitter feed was much more clinical.

Only the last 6 months of the feed were even visible until I started to kill it. I paid 9 bucks to Tweeteraser and started clicking. Layer after layer of tweets disappeared down an atemporal _cul de sac_, 3300 or so at a time. My personal account is still there, but locked and empty, except for a notice that points to this post.

We live in the era of digital incunabula. Much is gone whether you want it to be or not. But perversely, the stuff you want to go away will probably be around forever. Governments are already looking at social media profiles during border crossings, and denying people entry not just for things they have written, but for things their friends have written.

As a card-carrying Gen X member, I am acutely aware that we are the last generation that doesn’t have its childhood and early adult life online. This is one of the few advantages we have, and I’ll be damned if I’ll give it up without a fight.

So what does a sustainable online presence look like to me now? Because I am old, it looks like blogging, or perhaps mailing lists.

Blogging and mailing lists have a different temporality than social media: a more deliberate time of writing, a more controllable time of circulation, and time of reception that allows others to choose to receive them (or not) at their leisure. From my perspective, blogs have an advantage over mailing lists in that they’re cheaper and don’t rely on an external service to work.

I took a few hours to begin cleaning up Alienated, which is now 20 years old(!). There’s precious little to show for it too; random fragments of old versions of it litter my hard drives, getting in the way of what actually matters. That process will be completed over the next week or so, to be succeeded by a few small posts during the week, and a longer squib like this.

The guiding question for me is, what can I add that’s not already here? The answer is both my formal research, at the Residual Media Depot and elsewhere, and odds and ends of things that I can’t find online, or are somehow unnoticed. My inspirations are Warren Ellis’ _ORBITAL OPERATIONS_ and Patrick Tanguay’s _Sentiers_. Go and read them now.

I’ll keep reading Twitter, but what I write on it will be indexical, pointing here. Let’s see how long that lasts.


Our infrastructure fights and fucks now.

The Economist’s (July 20, 2019) briefing on War in Space was worth a read, because it told me more about “Satellite-on-Satellite Violence” than I knew. Within a decade it’ll be reported on the evening news like any other ongoing military conflict or planned shooting.

Down on the ground, more and more cities are building “sexual infrastructure.” On the edge of Köln, there’s now a sort of sex drive-in that looks a lot like a wand-wash. “The stall is designed so that the driver’s door can’t be opened, but the passenger one can” and there’s a safe room in each stall with a lockable door and emergency button to call for help. There are also social workers present on site.

The only short-sighted thing about sexual infrastructure of this sort is that it presumes people will keep having cars.


As all Canadian academics know, the Canadian Common CV deserves to be put out of our misery. Read about the alternatives and sign this petition before its inevitably crap third version comes into its full, terrible, being.

(HT @BiellaColeman)


One of my last few tweets concerns _VIRUS 23_, a zine I did with some friends at the end of the 80s. After tweeting, I discovered, as one does, that the sole copies I had placed online were inaccessible (digital incunabula), which I suppose is what you get if you rely on Icelandic pirates for your archivists. Anyway. I did some digging and rectified the situation.

From 1989 to 1992, I fell in with a group of sun-staring visionaries from Red Deer, Alberta — chiefly Bruce and Eric Fletcher, their friend Paul Pype, and later, Gunnar Blodgett (collectively known as ADoSA, the Alberta Department of Spiritual Affairs). I met them in 1989 in Edmonton, when I had arranged to interview a then relatively-unknown science fiction author named William Gibson about his work, because I was writing my MA thesis on it. When I showed up to the interview location, aside from William Gibson and his friend, the science fiction writer Tom Maddox, there were these other guys already there, and they had beer. Needless to say, we became friends very quickly.

Over the next four years, we released three thick zines crammed full of the zeitgeist of the moment — what, in retrospect, might be called industrial culture or early cyberpunk. (We were all young enough and happy enough to still be flirting with nihilism.) Our contemporaries were the pre-digital _bOING bOING_, _Mondo 2000_, _ReSearch_ and many others. In a pre-Web era, _Virus 23_ nevertheless developed a worldwide audience (we sent copies to every continent except Antarctica) thanks to the underground mail networks. Mike Gunderloy’s fabled _Factsheet Five_, the definitive zine about other zines, was particularly helpful, twice naming _Virus 23_ its Zine of the Month.

For an infrequent publication from northern Canada, _Virus 23_ had considerable cultural impact. When Gunderloy published his book _The World of Zines: A Guide to the Independent Magazine Revolution_, the blurb on the back cover cited _Virus 23_. I’ve lost track of many of the talented artists, writers, musicians and photographers who contributed to this project, so I can’t do much of a “Where are they now,” but I do know about the half-life of my own work from this period. After I interviewed Guy Maddin about his brand-new movie _Archangel_, he liked the zine so much that he put a big number 23 on the original movie poster for his next film, _Careful_. Digital versions of my William Gibson and Jack Womack interviews still show up all over the web, as does “WARNING,” a version of an early poem by Christian Bök that I adapted into an ad for the zine and posted to Andy Hawks’ FutureCulture mailing list in about 1992.

Other than the long-vanished MySpace page that Bruce Fletcher built for the zine many years ago (at and an unreliable set of files on my Ubuweb page, there has been no authoritative source for this material, until now. It has never been available in digital form in its entirety. Several of the editors do not even have their own original copies. Complete scans of the three issues are available on this site.

Conceptual Writing As Fanfic

This essay originally appeared in Fic: Why Fanfiction is Taking Over the World (Dallas, Smart Pop, 2013), edited by the amazing Anne Jamison. Buy the book; it’s a great collection from a unique press, and worth supporting.

APRIL 1, 2014: There are some interesting echoes of what I have to say here in Brian Droitcour’s “Young Incorporated Artists.”

Conceptual Writing and Fanfiction are the Bearded Spocks of their respective universes.

If you’re reading this, you probably already know more about fanfiction than I do.

What I know about is a thing called conceptual writing. And I think that one useful way to think about conceptual writing is as fanfiction about conceptual art.

Another might be to say that, in neighboring universes that overlap slightly, both fanfiction and conceptual writing play the role of bearded Spock. What I want to consider in this brief essay is the value of a kind of forced cultural exchange. In the event of an unexpected ion storm and a transporter accident, or its prose equivalent, is there anything useful that writers of fanfiction and conceptual writing might learn from each other? It’ll take me a few hundred words to get to the point where we can find out.

Conceptual writing is a term that has come to describe the work that my friends and I have produced over the last dozen years. One major example is Kenneth Goldsmith’s Day, which consists of the entire text from the September 1, 2000 issue of the New York Times—stock quotes, ads, captions, and all—reset in 9-point type, reproduced line by line, and bound as a massive paperback book, with Goldsmith listed as the author.1 In more general terms, conceptual writing is a catchall description for a mixed bag of writing techniques used by people who are interested in the impact of networked digital media on the creative process, the social function of authorship, and the economy of publishing.

This sort of writing is fannish in the sense that it draws much of its inspiration from things that were happening in the art world from the mid-1960s to the late 1970s. Conceptual art is a big, complex category, but Alexander Alberro usefully describes it in terms of four major “trajectories”: a deemphasizing of the importance of the artist’s technical skill and the cohesiveness of the final product; an increasing emphasis on the importance of text over images; a shift away from the aesthetically pleasing toward the conveyance of that odd modern invention we call information; and a questioning of how art is “supposed” to be framed, and the notion that there is a “correct” context (like a gallery) in which people are supposed to encounter it (pp. xvi, xvii ).2 Conceptual writing follows these trajectories because, with a few exceptions, they had been largely ignored by literary writers.

Before there was a clear consensus about what it was or what it was going to be called, what conceptual writing did was to draw attention to the rhetorical aspects of writing that canonical literature usually neglects: weather reports, legal transcripts, social media feeds, stock quotes, Usenet posts, and so on. These texts are the “dark matter” of literature; they make up the bulk of everything that’s written, but we habitually pretend that they don’t matter in any capacity other than the moment.

John Guillory describes such texts as belonging to what he calls “information genres.” In order to use them to convey that peculiar modern invention we call “information,” we have to pretend that they have no rhetorical value of their own that might taint it.3) By repackaging great swaths of information in media and formats other than the ones in which it initially appeared— again, think about Goldsmith reformatting the New York Times as a book—conceptual writing drew attention to the fact that all writing is poetic. It is poetic in that it always says more than we intend, and we assign value to it in keeping with large sets of external factors that sometimes have little to do with the ostensible content.

What conceptual writing does now is produce more poetry.

Over thirty years ago, legendary avant-garde poet and small-press publisher Bob Cobbing remarked that “there is no point whatsoever in adding to the quantity of poetry in this world. The world has quite enough poetry already. Probably too much. Far too much. The only excuse for being a poet today is to add to the quality of poetry, to add a quality which was not there before.”4 From Cobbing’s perspective, the job of the writer is not to produce more of something already recognizable, but to constantly shift approaches and techniques, literally making difference. Rather than simply adding to the bulk of unread books on the shelf, conceptual writing, like Cobbing’s work—and, I’d argue, like fanfiction—reframes big chunks of culture in a different context than they originally appeared, so that we can think about just how odd they actually are.

As is the fate of all successful cultural interventions, conceptual writing no longer exists on the margins of culture; it has become (semi-) respectable. Conceptual writers have performed in the Whitney Museum of American Art and the White House, and Goldsmith was selected as the Museum of Modern Art’s Poet Laureate for 2013. Say what you want about these institutions and whether or not conceptual writing deserves a place in them, but they’re very definitely not the margins. Conceptual writing has also produced the inevitable signs of cultural legitimacy: two giant, doorstop-sized anthologies, Against Expression: An Anthology of Conceptual Writing5 and I’ll Drown My Book: Conceptual Writing by Women.6 Conceptual writing has become a big tent, and all sorts of people have laid claim to it (which is not particularly surprising, for reasons I’ll get to shortly).

From my perspective, this isn’t an occasion for either celebration or mourning. I’m trying to provide a relatively dispassionate description of a process of cultural circulation that has happened many times before and will happen many times again. Monet was a radical before he was a calendar. What interests me—and is of relevance to both conceptual writing and fanfiction—is what happens next: how a community based around a formerly marginal writing practice deals with its own relative success.

It’s certainly possible to argue that fanfiction follows at least some of the trajectories of conceptual art, too, but that would take more space than I have here. The similarities between fanfiction and conceptual writing that I want to consider right now have nothing to do with tone, style, or subject matter. What interests me are particular similarities in the practices of their respective communities, and how cultural policing keeps them separate. In some respects, I think that conceptual writing has more to learn from fanfiction than the reverse.

Conceptual writing, like fanfiction, grows out of particular kinds of interpretive communities.

In his Introduction to the UbuWeb Anthology of Conceptual Writing, Craig Dworkin coined the term conceptual writing in its present usage.7 (It has since been revised and expanded for Against Expression.) Dworkin emphasizes that even though the majority of the anthology’s writers “were participants in the set of contemporaneous practices that came to be known as ‘Conceptual Art’” (see Lippard8), “conceptual writing” does not refer exclusively to “writings by conceptual artists.” Instead, Dworkin is after something that he calls “distinctly conceptual writing.”9

This deft rhetorical maneuver allows for a bit of anticipatory plagiarism on Dworkin’s part. The invention of the category of “distinctly conceptual writing” means that regardless of era, nationality, form, politics, or aesthetic allegiances, Dworkin can now claim the works of modernists like Alfred Jarry, Gertrude Stein, and Samuel Beckett, as well as texts from various neo–avant-garde individuals and groups, such as Fluxus and the Oulipo. What’s going on here is an attempt to imagine a community.

All arts communities try to situate themselves within a larger history of the kind of work that they admire. Dworkin’s invention of the notion of “distinctly conceptual writing” means that he can expand his canon into the present, to include work by twenty-first-century writers. Those people, whose names have been listed in different combinations at different times and different places (Dworkin included), are my friends, and here we arrive at the crux of the matter. Regardless of where it is now or what was happening elsewhere (and I know for a fact that in Vancouver and England at least, other communities were developing their own ideas about what could eventually be included under the big tent of conceptual writing), my experience of conceptual writing began with friendships more than with a sense of stylistic affinity. If you don’t like the people you’re talking to and writing with and for, you find another group. (I suspect this is true of fannish writing communities and fannish friendships, too.) Family resemblances are superficial at first, and develop as you and your friends discuss and debate, then work to find commonalities and ponder differences with the other communities you encounter along the way.

Dworkin’s essay, of course, first appears in the context of UbuWeb. The closest thing to the online home of conceptual writing, UbuWeb is a massive repository of avant-garde art, writing, audio, and video: everything from anonymous street flyers and outsider art to digital copies of early films by directors like Gus Van Sant. Much of the material on UbuWeb infringes on various copyrights. All of it has been collected and posted without permission and has been maintained through thousands of hours of labor without remuneration—except, perhaps, in the form of increased online reputation. I’d argue that this sort of unauthorized and quasi-authorized categorization, sorting, and positioning of one’s literary heroes in order to contextualize one’s own work is functionally indistinguishable from fannish activity, including fanfiction.

What makes the difference between conceptual writing and fanfiction are the respective cultural fields in which they occur.

Conceptual writing is located within literature and is ambivalent about wanting out. Fanfiction is located without literature and is ambivalent about wanting in.

American architectural and cultural theorist Charles Jencks expands on Umberto Eco’s notion of “double coding” to describe hybrid styles that deploy popular and elitist connotations simultaneously. Double-coded texts communicate with the public and “a concerned minority” at the same time.10 Sometimes called “dog whistles,” such texts contain references that will usually only be recognized by those “in the know.” When Omar quotes a line from Steve Earle’s song “New York City” to McNulty in an episode of The Wire (“The Cost,” 1-10), and Steve Earle is already a recurring cast member in the show, that’s a dog whistle. Morrissey’s use of the Polari phrase “Bona Drag” for the title of one of his albums is another type of double coding. Like Cockney rhyming slang, Polari was developed to indicate to members of specific communities (gays, carnies, etc.) that you were one of them. Different manifestations of double coding can achieve very different ends.11 Conceptual writing and fanfiction both partake of double coding in a way that creates a strong but slightly skewed resemblance—think Spock versus bearded Spock. When encountered by chance against the backdrop of everyday life, both fanfiction and conceptual writing can easily be mistaken for something more mundane, unless you know the subtle signs (Spock’s beard) that indicate that what you’re looking at means something profoundly different from what you think it does.

Conceptual writing formed within the world of small-press poetry, though many of its practitioners are ambivalent about identifying their work as poetry or themselves as poets (witness Kenneth Goldsmith’s frequent refrain that he’s not a poet, even though he’s been published largely by poetry presses). Dworkin mentions instances in which “one of the central figures of language poetry—a writer who had in fact himself incorporated transcribed texts into poetry” repeatedly excluded conceptual writing from poetry.12 This same Language poet told me, on another occasion, that what I wrote wasn’t poetry, but was “some sort of conceptual art.” If it was a compliment, it was backhanded at best. I think he meant it as a kind of policing gesture, to exclude my work from the set of things he wanted to consider important. But it’s hard to tell, because in North American culture, poetry itself is already a marginal activity. Books of poetry account for only 0.12 percent of total market sales in Canada,13 (I’m Canadian; given the amount of support Canadian literary presses receive from the government, and the lack of such support in the US, I assume that the figure is even lower in the states). For all of the newfound cultural capital that some of its members have accrued, in terms of the number of books in circulation, conceptual writing remains a margin of a margin.

Fanfiction also began as the marginal activity around genre fiction (or, as the academy condescendingly calls it, “paraliterature”). There are established pathways between fanfic and genre fiction, especially in science fiction. Not only do some SF fanfiction authors become commercial writers, but some commercial SF writers do more than support fanfiction—they continue to write it themselves.14 But fanfiction is making serious incursions into mainstream publishing. Penguin and other prestigious houses are beginning to buy up little publishing operations that publish fanfic and were previously considered “vanity press” services;15 Amazon is moving into the business of licensing entire fictional universes, presumably in the interest of producing a domesticated version of fanfiction. In a contemporary context, fanfiction has a much more convincing claim to cultural centrality than conceptual writing and even, arguably, poetry in general.

Fanfiction and conceptual writing have both been fueled by the rapid growth of networked digital media.

If fanfic and conceptual writing both have their origins in the small-press circulatory practices of specific interpretive communities, both have taken off as a result of the explosive growth of the Internet. Here again we encounter Spock’s beard, because there are uncannily similar-yet-different theories to account for this growth in both fanfiction and conceptual writing, each with their respective critical champion.

On one side of the mirror, Henry Jenkins, the preeminent theorist of convergence and transmedia, has made a strong case for the reliance of transmedia on fanfiction.16 Briefly, transmedia theory argues that storytelling now takes place across multiple media platforms, creating entire fictional universes that require the audience to visit many of them to experience fiction fully, and to actively participate in the telling of its stories. Star Trek, with its multiple series, books, comics, cartoons, websites, and huge, active fan community, is the canonical example; Jenkins’ work began with studies of fanfiction in the Star Trek community. On the other, Marjorie Perloff, the preeminent critic of the literary avant-gardes, developed a similar theory of what she calls the “differential text,”17 which I’ve expanded elsewhere to a theory of “differential media.”18 Perloff’s work on this subject begins with a consideration of Kenneth Goldsmith’s Fidget, a key early text of conceptual writing. While Perloff emphasizes the differential text is a series of aesthetic possibilities for different kinds of manifestations (Fidget has been, among other things, a book, a website, a performance piece, a gallery installation, and two tailored paper suits), Jenkins focuses on transmedia as a business model—but truth be told, both transmedia and differential media rely on the creation and circulation of cultural capital. Moreover, both have demonstrated that reputation and other forms of cultural capital can be translated into actual capital.

But there is a substantial difference between fanfiction and conceptual writing that proceeds directly from the relationship of each with transmedia and the differential text. Both fanfiction and conceptual writing can manifest differentially, but they place their emphases on different aspects of their source materials. Where fanfiction uses transmedia as its vehicle, conceptual writing takes as its subject the materiality of the new configurations and forms that transmedia provides.

Where fanfiction shifts characters to other settings, conceptual writing shifts text to other discursive contexts.

The basic move of both fanfic and conceptual writing is the ancient trope of the clinamen: repetition with a slight difference. In the form of a diagram, we could represent the respective swerves from tradition of fanfic and conceptual writing as spirals of varying degrees of tightness, expanding out from a point that they nevertheless continue to orbit. However, these spirals operate on different objects. Fanfiction works at the level of what’s written or said: for example, by combining characters from two different fictional worlds. Conceptual writing works at the level of the context in which something is written or said: for example, by shifting the context of a text’s publication from official courtroom transcripts to a hardbound edition published by a literary small press.

If fanfiction always proceeds with reference to some sort of original text produced by a successful commercial writer, conceptual writing begins by referring to gestures and practices produced by generations of successful avant-garde artists who already were calling the notion of originality itself into doubt. And yet, Dworkin notes that conceptual writing acquires a “strong sense of signature” because it makes “irrevocable” interventions into culture.19 Over time, a canny act of appropriation becomes indistinguishable from Romantic notions of creation out of nothing. W. G. Sebald allegedly gave the following advice to his creative writing students: “I can only encourage you to steal as much as you can. No one will ever notice. You should keep a notebook of tidbits, but don’t write down the attributions, and then after a couple of years you can come back to the notebook and treat the stuff as your own without guilt.”20 Creativity and appropriation are two sides of the same coin, and ultimately are inextricable from each other. While both fanfiction and conceptual writing might appear to challenge or threaten originality, they also rely on it and reproduce it at other moments.

Kenneth Goldsmith is the E. L. James of conceptual writing. Or, to put this all another way: This is an essay about E. L. James if I say so.

Both Goldsmith and James are symptoms of whatever it is that has replaced the crumbling narratives that we’ve used to make sense out of the tatters of modernity—some mutant form of celebrity culture.

Fanfiction is now demonstrably capable of producing bestselling authors. Conceptual writing has had some mainstream successes: the international success of Christian Bök’s Eunoia, and Kenneth Goldsmith reading for President Obama—and his subsequent lampooning by Jon Stewart—are two of them. If literature retains any of its privilege, it’s only so that privilege can be claimed by the Spock-bearded rabble that it traditionally relegated to the hinterlands, now bent on dividing between themselves the diminishing spoils of what we used to call literature.

To avoid reproducing the myopia and narrowness that conceptual writing and fanfiction came into existence to contest, they both need to recognize that they are part of a larger cultural tendency to see all creativity as a process of remixing. Dworkin notes that “in the twenty-first century, conceptual poetry thus operates against the background of related vernacular practices, in a climate of pervasive participation and casual appropriation.”21 The only problem with that sentence, from my perspective, is what counts as foreground and what counts as background.

By recognizing itself as a minoritarian practice (i.e., part of the background), conceptual writing might become capable of doing something that poetry has never been capable of: recognizing the things that look just like it and transpire all around it that are not published as poetry, don’t circulate through literary communities, aren’t received by people as literary texts, but nevertheless could be formally indistinguishable from conceptual writing . . . and not colonizing them for poetry in the process. There’s a price to pay for that, though: actually giving up the last vestiges of the Romantic notion of author-as-lone-genius, the ones that even a century of modernity refused to erase. In its place, we might install some sort of invisible but open conspiracy that’s capable of appreciating the tactical efficiencies of the things we want to dismiss as cheesy imitations and knockoffs. If makers of conceptual writing and fanfiction really desire to operate differently from culture at large (and I’m no longer sure that this was ever the case), they’d need to produce writers who are not interested in becoming celebrity authors, but are willing to dissolve away into the shadows before the laurels can be handed out. Not Warhol’s Factory, but Batman Incorporated.

Here’s a PDF of the essay as it appeared in the book.

  1. Goldsmith, Kenneth. Day. Great Barrington, MA: The Figures, 2003. 

  2. Alberro, Alexander. “Reconsidering Conceptual Art, 1966–1977.” In Conceptual Art: A Critical Anthology, edited by Alexander Alberro and Blake Stimson. Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 1999. 

  3. John Guillory, “The Memo and Modernity,” Critical Inquiry 31 (2004 

  4. Cobbing, Bob and Steven Ross Smith. Ballet of the Speech Organs: Bob Cobbing on Bob Cobbing. Saskatoon/Toronto: Underwhich Editions, 1998. 

  5. Dworkin, Craig and Kenneth Goldsmith. Against Expression: An Anthology of Conceptual Writing. Avant-Garde & Modernism Collection. Evanston, IL: Northwestern University Press, 2011. 

  6. Bergvall, Caroline, et al., eds. I’ll Drown My Book: Conceptual Writing by Women. Los Angeles: Les Figues Press, 2012. 

  7. Dworkin, Craig Douglas. “The UbuWeb Anthology of Conceptual Writing.” UbuWeb. Accessed 9 June 2013. 

  8. Lippard, Lucy R. Six Years: The Dematerialization of the Art Object from 1966 to 1972; A Cross-Reference Book of Information on Some Esthetic Boundaries. New York: Praeger, 1973 

  9. Dworkin, “UbuWeb Anthology.” 

  10. Jencks, Charles. “From ‘The Death of Modern Architecture’ from What Is Post-Modernism?” In From Modernism to Postmodernism: An Anthology, edited by Lawrence Cahoone, expanded 2nd ed. Malden, MA: Blackwell. 

  11. Ibid. 

  12. Dworkin and Goldsmith, Against Expression 

  13. CBC Books. “To Read or Not to Read: Fresh Air Considers the State of Poetry in Canada.” CBC Books, 11 Apr. 2011. 

  14. Romano, Aja. “10 Famous Authors Who Write Fanfiction.” The Daily Dot, 30 Aug. 2012. 

  15. Sonne, Paul and Jeffrey A. Trachtenberg. “Penguin Group Dives into Self-Publishing.” Wall Street Journal, 19 July 2012. 

  16. Jenkins, Henry. Convergence Culture: Where Old and New Media Collide. New York: New York University Press, 2006. See especially chapter 3 

  17. Perloff, Marjorie. “‘Vocable Scriptsigns’: Differential Poetics in Kenneth Goldsmith’s Fidget.” In Poetry, Value, and Contemporary Culture, edited by Andrew Roberts and John Allison. Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press, 2002 

  18. Wershler, Darren S. Guy Maddin’s My Winnipeg (Canadian Cinema vol. 6). Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 2010 

  19. Dworkin and Goldsmith, Against Expression 

  20. Skinner, Richard. “Max Sebald’s Writing Tips.” Richard Skinner (blog). 14 Jan. 2013. 

  21. Ibid. 

Title of Essay in Plain Type

This essay originally appeared as the Afterword to Nick Thurston’s Of the Subcontract, or, Principles of Poetic Right (Information As Material, agented by Coach House Books, 2013). Pick up a copy of it; it’s a timely and troublingly gorgeous book.

This book begins with an image. We know it is a false image, and that is the problem.

This is not the late nineteenth century. We are past the point of delight and instruction. We are no longer capable of being amazed by the performance of the latest technologies and then elucidated by the description of their operation.

We are also past the point of criticism. In an era of faith-based presidencies and fundamentalist theocracies, reason takes a backseat to religiosity and gut feelings. Simply revealing the point where there were errors in our thinking solves nothing.

We know the fix is in. We know that the explanation we are offered is not the real explanation. And yet we hang around for it.

In this book’s opening image, what we see, from behind, are the ostensible inner workings of the Mechanical Turk, an infamous “automaton” built by Wolfgang von Kempelen in the late eighteenth century. This copper engraving was first published in 1783 in one of a stream of books, pamphlets and articles that claimed to have figured out how von Kempelen’s machine worked.1) We already know that the revelations this image claims to present are a sham. We already know that what lies behind those doors and compartments are not the various and sundry components of an actual clockwork mechanism capable of playing a match-winning game of chess, but what movie set designers call “gak” – elaborate mechanical confections attached to the surface of a prop to give us the sense that something marvelous and technical is occurring within it – something, in this case, made more opaque by the puppet dressed like an Eastern mystic who faces the audience. We’re entertained by how impressive it all looks, even though we already know that what is really inside the cramped and stuffy confines of the box is at least one small, sweaty, poorly-paid human being.

This worries us, because we also know that’s choice to adopt this icon to describe their low-rent Internet-based crowdsourced labour pool, Amazon Mechanical Turk (AMT), is both wholly appropriate and eye-wateringly honest.

Turkey has had a labour migration agreement in place with Germany since 1961. For decades, Turkish families have relocated to do the work that Germans would rather not; a pattern that recurs all over the world, within and without international legislation.

(My brother’s first wife was German. Tradition in Germany has it that the night before a wedding, there is a large party. Guests bring old dishes, crockery and anything else that can be broken into pieces by throwing it on the ground. Afterwards the bride and groom clean up the mess together, in order to symbolize their hope that nothing essential to their relationship will be broken in the future, and that they are committed to working together to clean up any messes that might come along. The German sense of humour being what it is, my brother’s fiancée’s friends showed up with a load of old toilets, bidets and sinks and proceeded to smash them into large, heavy chunks. His soon-to-be-father-in-law waved his hand dismissively. “Never mind”, he said. “My Turks will take care of it.” In retrospect, maybe my brother and his now-ex-wife should have cleaned it up themselves.) 

We have a growing suspicion that Amazon’s Turks might not be faring much better. Researchers have conducted some very detailed studies into who, exactly, works for AMT, and we have read them with concern.

From Panos Ipeirotis’ dataset we know that 54% of the people that work for AMT (“Turkers”) are between 21 and 35 years old. We know that 70% of them are women. We know that 65% of them have a household income of less than $60,000 per year, and that 55% of them do not have children. We know that 46.80% of them are from the United States, another 34% are from India, and the remaining 19.20% are from everywhere else.2

We have also read essays explaining that the Turk is in fact an elegant metaphor for the precarious condition of the worker in a globalized and networked milieu.3 And we have made a substantial amount of art that actually makes use of Amazon Mechanical Turk as a productive medium to demonstrate the same point, but in a way that is, you know, artier.

The point is not that the mechanism is empty, like some kind of neutral reproducer. The point is that it is a mechanism that already includes a spot for you – like the Law in Franz Kafka”‘s novel The Trial – whether that spot is in front of it as a player, inside it as the operator, behind it as the spectator being shown its misleading components, from afar as the critic describing and demystifying it by virtue of your criticism or, increasingly, as the artist or writer (mis)using it in your project.4) The moment that you engage the setup as a problematic, the machine springs into action.

The history of people using AMT to make art is almost as old as the history of the platform.

Gregory Laynor, Stephen McLaughlin, Kaegan Sparks and Vladimir Zykov published a series of AMT pieces in 2008 on their FOR GODOT blog, under the titleI WAS TOLD TO WRITE 50 WORDS, which was exactly the workshop exercise they had been set by their professor, Kenneth Goldsmith.5

The same year, Blogger user Ann conducted an exquisite corpse-style experiment on AMT, choosing a first line, having several AMT workers submit next lines and picking one winner, then resubmitting that line until the poem was completed. One example still appears on the Crowd Poet blog.6

In 2010, Markus Strohmaier produced In the daily life of a Mechanical Turk, a poem constructed around the acrostic phrase “infinite monkey” and arranged in a series of rhyming couplets. The individual lines that filled this framework were composed by AMT workers.7

Also in 2010, the question “What are the most creative uses of Amazon’s Mechanical Turk?” appeared on the user-generated Q&A platform Quora, and answers are still being added. Nat Friedman responded, 

I had Turkers email poems to a friend of mine who was faced with a dilemma. For $0.50 you get a pretty good poem, and for $1.00 they really put in an effort. Be sure to set the time limit for the HIT high enough so that they have time to compose something good.

Ben Packer contributed this answer to the same question: 

I had MTurkers write love letters to my wife.

I gave enough details for them to write something specific and personal (but not enough for them to find and stalk us – hopefully). I paid 25 cents with up to a 50 cent bonus for great ones. When I got them, I copied and pasted them in emails to my wife. She was very confused, particularly by the one that was signed “Frank”. I told her it was a typo.8

A year later, Suzi Grossman wrote several AMT poems. The first, “Scary Cat”, began with a poem by Alfred Tennyson, which she then excised text from and had workers fill in the blanks “madlib style.” The second, a sound piece, consisted of single lines about “late fall” read by AMT workers, then stitched together.9

Aaron Koblin and Daniel Masse’s Bicycle Built for 2,000 uses AMT on a larger scale. In this project, the workers listened to a short sound clip, then recorded themselves imitating what they heard. 2,088 such recordings were synced together to produce a choral version of “Daisy Bell” (1892), the song used to create the first example of musical speech synthesis.10

On Strip Generator, a social media comic strip production portal, dogtrax’s Digital Writing Month strip describes completing a difficult class assignment to write a digital poem by outsourcing it all to AMT… and then paying for it in Bitcoin.11

Fred Benenson’s Kickstarter-funded Emoji Dick submitted each of the 10,000+ sentences in Herman Melville’s Moby-Dick to an AMT worker three times for translation into Japanese emoticons (emoji). Another set of workers voted on these results, selecting the most popular sentences for use in the final book. More than 800 people spent about 44 days working on this project, making $0.05 per translation and $0.02 per vote per translation.12

I am sure I have missed a number of other, similar projects along the way. Whatever. Reception cannot keep pace with this kind of production, and the resulting glut strips away our ability to distinguish. All that remains is the corporate ruthlessness of the search algorithm and its numerically defined sense of what your search should produce, presented to you as though it were perfectly transparent and logical or the poetic voice of some correlative intelligence.

What this history means is that we need to read Of the Subcontract not solely as a critique of poetry (lyrical, conceptual or otherwise). Nor can we read this book solely as a critique of the economics of the Amazon Mechanical Turk. Of the Subcontract needs to be read as a critique of artists and poets who employ networked digital outsourcing as a production method … including the author. If this is institutional critique, the point is that art is now quite comfortable inside the institution. There is no neutral place on which to stand.

Paraphrasing the work of Peter Sloterdijk, Slavoj Žižek summarises contemporary ideology with the following aphorism: “they know very well what they are doing, but still, they are doing it”.13 The artistic gesture of using AMT to write poetry is fully ironized. It wants to assert, at the same time, that the once-lauded cultural value of the work of poets is now so close to nothing as to be indistinguishable from it, and that the work of precarious labourers in a networked digital milieu, which is remunerated far below minimum wage, without benefits or the collective bargaining power of unionization, is nevertheless dignified. But we cannot even be bothered to agonize about the deadlock any more.

The act of using AMT to make art has already settled in the popular imagination at the level of a composition exercise in the classroom. We try it once, blog about it, perhaps crowdfund the product of our orchestrations in order to package it more elaborately and add another level of iteration to the multiplicity of our production. Then we move on. The traces of our efforts sit on various backwater corners of the web, echoed and reechoed by their real audience: spiders and robots, who, like us, read without caring.

Although Amazon Mechanical Turk might be a market-leader, it is by no means a unique business. Online portals that connect employers and workers and extract a fee for doing so facilitate a new sort of freelance production that is, in the double sense, data-based. Take, for instance, the foreword “by” McKenzie Wark at the beginning of this book, which was subcontracted to a ghostwriter in Lahore, Pakistan, for $75 via

Of the Subcontract is entirely unconcerned with originality. We might consider it as an attempt to exhaust the gesture of using AMT to write a book of poetry by producing its most complete realization, in the hope that we might somehow be able to move past the point of deadlock. In that respect, the message of this book would echo the title – and the futility – of derek beaulieu’s recent collection, Please, No More Poetry (Waterloo: Wilfrid Laurier University Press, 2013). Because, of course, even if the message is to stop and do something else, what has been produced is yet another book of poetry to add to the long, long shelf of unread titles.14) We can be polite about it, but we cannot even dignify our own request by refusing to partake ourselves.

This book is not a solution but a symptom, a litmus test of larger social changes, both basic and corrosive. We use data to represent these changes to ourselves. The meanings that we abstract and extract from that data enforce and accelerate those changes. Data is the great leveller, reconfiguring both the most privileged and the least privileged kinds of writing as Human Intelligence Tasks. Poets and professors can point to this change, but so far, have not been able to move beyond it. As we are beginning to realize, our tasks, too, can be outsourced.

In a myriad of ways, Of the Subcontract implicates us. It contains only synthesized voices from an unprecedented future, complicit in their own exploitation, mustering a form of writing that is brutally present.

Here’s a PDF of the essay as it appeared in the book.

  1. Karl Gottlieb von Windisch,Briefe über den Schachspieler des Hrn. von Kempelen nebst drey Kupferstichen die diese berühmte Maschine vorstellen (Pressberg, 1783 

  2. Panos Ipeirotis, ‘Demographics of Mechanical Turk” (NYU Center for Digital Economy Research Working Paper CeDER–10–01, 2010): 

  3. See especially Ayhan Aytes, “Return of the Crowds: Neoliberal States of Exception”, Digital Labor: The Internet as Playground and Factory, ed. Trebor Sholz (New York: Routledge, 2013): pp. 79–97 

  4. Franz Kafka (1925),The Trial, trans. Willa & Edwin Muir (London: Martin Secker & Warburg Ltd., 1983 

  5. Gregory Laynor, Stephen McLaughlin, Kaegan Sparks, Vladimir Zykov,I WAS TOLD TO WRITE 50 WORDS, FOR GODOT (26 April 2008): fifty-words.html 

  6. Ann, “The Mechanical Turk Poetry Project”, Crowd Poet Blog (August 23, 2008): 

  7. Markus Strohmaier, “Programming Poems with Mechanical Turk”, Intentialicious: Markus Strohmaier’s Weblog (29 December 2010): 

  8. ‘What are the most creative uses of Amazon’s Mechanical Turk?”, Quora: Nat Friedman response: 27 October 2010; Ben Packer response: 27 June 2012 

  9. Suzi Grossman, “Mechanical Turk Idea” (November 4, 2011): http:// 

  10. Aaron Koblin, Daniel Masse, Bicycle Built for 2,000: 

  11. dogtrax, Digital Writing Month, Strip Generator (3 November 2012): 

  12. Fred Benenson, Emoji Dick (self-published, 2013): 

  13. Slavoj Žižek (1989), The Sublime Object of Ideology (London/New York: Verso, 2008): p. 25 

  14. derek beaulieu, Please, No More Poetry: The Poetry of derek beaulieu, ed. Kit Dobson (Waterloo: Wilfrid Laurier University Press, 2013 

The last Alienated column: Unicity

This was the final column in my long run at Matrix magazine, which appeared in issue 94, on “New Winnipeg Writing.” Admittedly, it’s an example of what my friend Christian would call “melted Popsicle realism,” but it got me thinking about how postmodernity might not even leave ruins to contemplate.

Unicity = space ark. Roger Huyssen’s cover for the first Boston album appears in the front window of YES THIS IS SAM THE RECORD MAN less than a year after the mall opens: domed saucer cities in flight from a dying Earth. Everything gone by 2000. A circle of earth berms and a great plain of fused asphalt to mark where it settled, then rose, diminishing.

Difficult to convey the brownness of it now. Chocolate brown brick exterior and powder-coated brown aluminum trim, high-gloss brown ceramic floor tiles, a profusion of brown and orange injection-molded plastic stools and brown mushroom-shaped tables in the food court. Ficus trees in brown plastic planters. Brown food: the first MCDONALD’S installed inside a mall in Canada. Paper boats of fries and gravy from LUCKY FRIED CHICKEN, lunchtime staple for generations of children drifting in from Hedges Junior High across the street, maroon ringette jackets, denim, Players Light, feathered hair and blue eyeshadow, harassed by mall cops in brown polyester uniforms for not leaving fast enough.

Imagine these things before they were coated with a thick layer of irony: Lava lamps. Nastassja Kinski wearing a Burmese python. Dungeons & Dragons Basic Edition. Vinyl Adidas bags. Star Wars figures, when there was only one movie. Lemon gin. Banana clips. Painter pants. Iron-on t-shirts. White Nike All-courts. Acid wash. Big Wheels and Green Machines. Braun cordless curling irons. Black velvet DoodleArt posters. Pontiac Firebirds. Atari 2600. Cassette decks with woodgrain finish (brown). Concentrated into one physical location and lost in a sea of other objects, all new, gleaming, superior. Desire, focused and channeled and redirected by omnipresent mirror tiles.

The girl in LAURA SECORD, too beautiful to speak with unless I bought ice cream. The girls in fuzzy Adidas shorts (red and blue) and pompom socks who sat with me on the mall benches and giggled, then mocked me later behind my back. The girl in ORANGE JULIUS who gave me her phone number then wouldn’t talk to me when I called. The girl in SMITTY’S who held my hand and played me Ratt’s “Round and Round,” then married someone when she was barely 18. Double-date rides in downtown glass elevators with a work friend from BOOTLEGGER, until her sad, funny, brilliant boyfriend hanged himself, and then again after she almost married my brother. The girl who let me slip my hand under her bra late at night, sitting on the sound barrier past the parking lot. The girl in DALMY’S my friend Bruce swore squirted aerosol whipped cream all over him and then licked it off. The girl in centre court I didn’t recognize because her jaw was wired shut and her arms and legs were broken after their car flipped on the Perimeter Highway while driving drunk with a guy from the Downs, a girl I played caps with until 2 am and probably kissed, or at least tried to kiss.

The places I walked by without looking too closely. The garbage compressor and transformer room, electrical hum and sickly-sweet stench of ORANGE JULIUS cups. LADY FOOT LOCKER, though I bought a girl one of those braided pink-and-white cotton Olivia Newton-John headbands and some stirrup pants for her birthday once. SHOPPERS DRUG MART, unless buying or stealing rubbers. MARKS AND SPENCER (Why?). The Red Grille Restaurant in WOOLCO, all stained Bunn-o-matics and unwiped counters and people from the old folks’ home eating pie and coffee. I want to write that the pies were in cabinets with angled mirrors behind them so that you could see what was on offer, but can’t say for sure.

Fall, when the Buffalo Barbecue filled the parking lot. Conklin trucks full of heavy machinery assembled by thin greasy guys with endless caps of hash oil for sale. The Polar Express (Do you want to go FASTER?) and the Tilt-A-Whirl, Journey’s “Wheel in the Sky” on endless repeat. The jingle of change hitting the pavement from people’s pockets as their gondolas turned upside down. Bison burgers. Feathered earrings and Judas Priest t-shirts. And the first place I ever saw anyone break-dance.

When they added the LC to the back of the mall, the first trick was not arriving at the same time as our teachers at the end of the day. Since a dozen stubbies fit nicely inside an Adidas bag, box and all, the second trick was keeping the frozen straps on an overstuffed bag from snapping in –35 C weather.

In the absence of a video arcade in the entire west end of the city, playing Choplifter on the Apple II upstairs in THE BAY. The weird kid that WOOLCO let sit in the store every night and program sprite graphics on the Sinclair ZX–81, who probably makes more money than God now.

A guy from my school being hauled away by security after stripping down to his trunks and jumping into a bubbling Jacuzzi on display in the centre courtyard. Two more guys trying to convince security they were shoplifting by running past department store one-way mirrors with their brand-new LED watches flapping out of their back pockets. One more guy eventually becoming a security guard.

COLES THE BOOK PEOPLE. Paperbacks for a buck and a quarter. A science fiction section I knew inside-out because the inventory changed so rarely. Sneaking glances at what passed for dirty books. And where I went to look at pictures of other, bigger cities.

Once a winter, WOOLCO would hire me and about a hundred of my hung-over high-school friends to inventory the entire store on a Sunday morning. Which goes a long way toward explaining why WALMART eventually bought them out, then corroded away the entire mall from within, leaving only a parking lot pocked with big box stores.

An almost total absence of detail about it anywhere on the Web, other than Wikipedia. And there, “This article about a building or structure in Manitoba is a stub. You can help Wikipedia by expanding it.” With what, exactly.

There will be no Canadian Heritage Minute for Unicity. There will be no brass plaque. Not a place but a set of corridors between businesses that no longer exist, neither inside nor out, private nor public, a mall is barely there when it’s there. And when it’s gone, it’s not even a ruin, not even a memory, but something like reminiscence: that place where that guy did that thing that time.

Don’t Look Back.

Best Before Date

What if the poetic has left the poem in the same way that Elvis has left the building?

Long after the limo pulled away, the audience was still in the arena, screaming for more. Even after his death, especially after his death, Elvis is sighted, replicated and imitated all of the time, but in radically different contexts. If anything, his death was really the beginning of a wild proliferation and circulation of Elvisness beyoind the domain of popular music. In that process, though, the form and meaning of Elvisness changed (and continues to change) dramatically, adapting to and eliciting new kinds of interpretive communities that are interested in having conversations about it, even organizing their entire lives around it. And none of this seems to detract much from the ardor of the original Elvis fans, even if the number of people still waiting in the arena continues to dwindle … and even if the arena itself is in precarious shape.

It’s not that the poetic can’t still be found in poetry; the vast and varied world of small literary presses, poetry blogs, magazines, zines, readings and literary festivals attests that poetry qua poetry is still chugging along just fine. It’s just that the official channels of poetry are not the first place that most people encounter poetic effects these days … and probably haven’t been, for some time now. Reciprocally, what readers are encountering in the books published by poetry presses like Les Figues, Roof, BookThug, Coach House, The Figures, Housepress, Make Now, Truck, etc. is, increasingly, language that was previously considered to be unpoetic. Regardless of this reversal, though, the domains of poetic and public discourse remain largely separate from each other.

In blunt, numeric terms, most of what we read and write isn’t poetry. Of all of the books sold in Canada in 2010, only 0.12 percent of total market sales were poetry titles1. Nevertheless, the metaphors that poets and their critics have used over the last hundred years to discuss poetry’s relationship to media privilege the primacy of poetic discourse, suggesting that ideas flow out from poetry to culture at large. However: poetic language has always already been outside the poem. The inherently paragrammatic nature of language guarantees that it’s always been possible to find poetic effects outside of poetry, and, though it’s impossible to fully document this phenomenon, there are a wealth of examples. Much of the avant-garde writing and art of the last century occupied itself by specializing in harvesting examples of paragrammatic poetic language from “outside” the normal channels of poetic production and redeploying it as art.

Two things changed over the first decade of the new millennium in terms of how poetic language circulates. First, when contemporary experimental writers appropriate large chunks of text for their own use, they don’t necessarily do so because of the location in that text of qualities normally associated with poetry (rhyme, meter, unusual imagery, elegant prosody etc.). Instead, they do so in order to focus attention on the qualities of the genres that we use to convey that peculiar invention of modernity called “information.” This is significant because in order for such genres to convey information, we normally pretend that they have been flensed of all rhetoricity. The result is what Kenneth Goldsmith has called, at various points, boring, uncreative2, or conceptual writing3: a tendency that makes claims to its importance in the world of poetic discourse precisely through its use of previously nonpoetic language. The second is that this tendency to draw attention to the properties of information genres has also been occurring simultaneously outside of the channels in which poetry circulates, at a speed too rapid to argue that such practices are the result of a dissemination from conceptual writing and its ilk. Poetry isn’t currently a driver of culture but a symptom. What interests me is not so much how to read conceptual writing – plenty of critics have already figured that out – but how to read the things that are occurring simultaneously with it, and bear a strong family resemblance to it. The question of what to write after the formalization of conceptual writing also raises its head.

In his essay on the memo and modernity, John Guillory provides a startling reminder that although the modern epistemic order locates literature at one end of its axis and scholarship and science at the other, the great bulk of writing over the last century and a half has been neither literary nor scientific4. Instead, the dark matter of modern textuality is informational writing: memos, business letters, status updates, forms, executive summaries, lists, web pages, reports, RSS feeds, classifed ads, indices, catalogues, howto manuals and countless other hybrid “information genres” that we habitually ignore. Informational writing, especially in its megageneric form, the document, often eludes scrutiny because of its odd combination of ephemerality and permanence: it might be read once or never, but it must always be filed away somewhere, and, at least in theory, accessible5. As both a cause and effect of modernity’s invention of the category of information itself, informational writing aspires to be a mere conduit, to flense itself of all rhetorical flourishes; the more interesting the individual document, the less representative it is of its own genre6. As scholars, we are confronted with exciting project of describing all of these suddenly visible hybrid genres, especially in terms of their roles and functions in constituting the modern, the postmodern and the emerging world of the amodern. As writers, though, we are confronted with some genuine questions about how to proceed.

Of course, there is no zero degree of rhetoricity. As Umberto Eco joked many years ago, the best definition of the sign is that it is anything that can be used to tell a lie7, and art has always been a form of lying. I’d argue, in fact, that the long history of the 20th century avant-gardes consists, for the most part, of artists and writers re-asserting the rhetorical value of information genres by appropriating and recontextualizing significant chunks of them. But rather than thinking once again about appropriation as a practice within writing and art, I’d like to consider the implications of the proliferation today of poeticized information outside of the manifold forms and institutions of verse culture.

For most of the last decade, I’ve been noticing an increasing number of examples of what I initially thought of as “uncreative writing in the wild” or “conceptualism in the wild.” The problem I now have with this term is that it prioritizes the “-ism,” implying a flow outward from poetry into culture at large. This notion of influence and transmission has been one of the command metaphors behind the discourse of poetry and technology for about a century. In 1922, Ezra Pound declaimed that “Artists are the antennae of the race”8. Marshall McLuhan picked up on this metaphor, updating and expanding it many times. This passage is from the introduction to the 2nd edition of Understanding Media:

Art as radar acts as an “early alarm system,” as it were, enabling us to discover social and psychic targets in lots of time to prepare to cope with them. This concept of the arts as prophetic, contrast with the popular idea of them as mere self-expression. If an art is an “early warning system,” to use the phrase from World War II, when radar was new, art has the utmost relevance not only to media study but to the development of media controls.9

Christopher Dewdney’s “Parasite Maintenance” updates the technology in McLuhan’s metaphor for the late 20th century (with a touch of Jack Spicer thrown in for good measure), imagining the poet as a satellite dish: “The radio telescope becomes a model of the bi-conscious interface between ‘the mind’ and signals from the ‘outside’ which the poet receives”10. What these models have in common is that they imagine communication in terms of a more-or-less linear transmission. As James Carey famously pointed out, the transmission model of communication is always wrapped up in “complementary models of power and anxiety”11. Looking again at Pound’s fascist wartime broadcasts, McLuhan’s cold war conservatism and Dewdney’s lysergic paranoia, it’s probably time to find another way to describe the relationship between poetry and the rest of contemporary culture. Teleological accounts of the “influence” of media and literature (and in this case, of their overlap) almost inevitably overlook the messy, contingent ways in which media, formats and genres overlap each other. Rather than origins or influences, it might be more productive to consider, as Foucault suggests, institutionalizations, transformations, affiliations and relationships12. As a corrective then, a better metaphor might be the poet as dosimeter – an index of ongoing exposure to something ambient that’s already in the environment. Something, for that matter, that might actually have killed you before you even knew it was there.

More recently, I’ve started to refer to the objects appearing in culture at large that conceptual writing resembles as “findables.” Here are a few:

The Diary of Samuel Pepys13. Since January 1, 2003, designer and programmer Phil Gyford has been publishing and annotating entries from the 17th century diary of Samuel Pepys on a daily basis. Gyford was one of the first to recognize the cultural significance of the blog as a form, and began this practice long before tools like WordPress and Blogger were commonly available, and at a time when the content of the Web still skewed heavily toward nerd topics (Star Wars, Star Trek, Linux, etc.).

Harry Potter & the Well of Scammers14. 419 eater is a website dedicated to making miserable the lives of perpetrators of Advance Fee Fraud (aka “419 fraud” because of the section of the Nigerian penal code concerning the fraud schemes that originate within its borders). In 2006, “Arthur Dent” [pseud.] received a typical 419 letter from someone identifying themselves as “Joyce Ozioma”, offering him $27 million USD to invest. Dent in turn offered the scammer the opotunity to earn $100 per page of handwritten text for inclusion in “a very important 4 year long research project on Advanced Handwriting Recognition and Graphology systems.” In short order, he convinced them to write out longhand, scan and email him all 293 pages of Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets – now visible on the website.

The Leila Texts15. There are three ways to send an SMS on the Verizon network: entering a phone number manually, picking a contact from your phonebook, or typing in a name. If you type L-E-I-L-A, you send a message to novelist Leila Sales. Since 2007, she’s been saving and blogging the messages that have been sent to her (on average, five times a day) that should have gone to other Leilas. What’s of interest to her, as the site’s subtitle (“Small glimpses into strangers’ lives, courtesy of a technological glitch”) suggests, is not just the content, but the circumstances of its production and appearance.

Horse_ebooks16. @Horse_ebooks is a Twitter account associated with, which is itself part of, a clearinghouse for quickie ebook titles. Beginning in early 2011, the Twitter feed began to publish excerpts from horse books, mixed with other fragments of text. The combination is oddly compelling, in part because it’s difficult to determine if the tweets are automated or the selections of a human intelligence. The Horse_ebooks Twitter feed caught the imagination of the Internet public late in 2011, and remains a media darling as of this writing.

Richard Dreyfuss reading the Apple iTunes End User License Agreement17. In 2011, CNET Reporters’ Roundtable asked actor Richard Dreyfuss to do a reading of the iTunes EULA as part of an inquiry into why the prose of such licenses is so convoluted. This differs from earlier performances, such as Christopher Walken’s dramatic reading of Lady Gaga’s “Poker Face,” because what’s foregrounded in Dreyfuss’s case is not poetic language, however banal without the accompanying music and performance, but the complex legal language of clickwrap agreements.

Casting the term as an adverb rather than a noun (the “found poem”) is deliberate, because the findable is about potential rather than accomplishment. What that potential represents is a context for discussing the kind of amusing crap that surfaces in our inboxes all the time – altered and unaltered images, funny infographics, viral videos, even spam – in terms of the conditions of its circulability, iterability and form. The “findable” is a genre, an empty container, a potential context serving many of the social purposes we used to attribute to poetry.

The differences that make findables something other than poems are not material; they have to do with questions of circulation. Findables aren’t conceived of as poems; they aren’t produced by people who identify as poets; they circulate promiscuously, sometimes under anonymous conditions; and they aren’t encountered by interpretive communities that identify them as literary.

Unlike their modernist literary cousin the “found poem,” though, findables don’t recover anything for poetry. In this respect, they’re also very different than the “Sought Poems” that K. Silem Mohammad describes. He outlines Flarf’s database-driven method of poetic production which consists of entering multiple keywords into Google and then “whittling and shuffling” the results18. Mohammad’s term for the output of this method is the “Sought poem”, an apt term for “a process of aggressively looking for something, with the intent of enlisting it in some capacity”19. This “enlisting” signals clearly that Flarf is still a literary activity. Flarf enlists superabundant content and then squeezes it into recognizable literary forms: poems that are lineated, arranged in stanzas, and so on. “Maybe,” Mohammad writes, “sought poetry is a metrics after all”: a rigorous control of form that enables “accidents of theme”20.

All of the findables I’ve just mentioned have analogs in conceptual writing. Long-form blogging of texts like the Pepys’ diary project became a common trope in conceptual writing circles about three years ago; see, for example, Simon Morris and Nick Thurston’s 2009 piece Getting Inside Jack Kerouac’s Head21, in which they first blogged, then republished, all of On the Road, or Vanessa Place’s Twitter feed of fragments from Gone with the Wind22. Both the tricksterism and the holography of Arthur Dent’s 419-baiting find an analog in the practice of Kenneth Goldsmith, who has at various times positioned himself as both scammer and scammed. In an early article, “May We Graft Chicken Wings To Your Head in the Interest of Aviation,”23 he has written about the history of media pranking, and is currently working on a series of holograph manuscripts of historically significant manifestoes, such as The Communist Manifesto and the S.C.U.M. Manifesto. Like the Leila texts, Goldsmith has a series of letters that he has received since 1994 from people assuming – because of his role as WFMU DJ “Kenny G” – that he is the smooth-jazz musician Kenny G (b. Kenneth Gorelick)24. The Horse_ebooks Twitter feed is a sort of superior hybrid of Flarf and my two automated web projects with Bill Kennedy, The Apostrophe Engine25 and Status Update26, used to generate our books apostrophe27 and Update28.

It’s possible to “find” poetic effects in another text because of the inherently paragrammatic qualities of language. The most succinct definition of the paragram remains Julia Kristeva’s famous note from Revolution in Poetic Language: “A text is paragrammatic, writes Leon S. Roudiez, ‘in the sense that its organization of words (and their denotations), grammar, and syntax is challenged by the infinite possibilities provided by letters or phonemes combining to form networks of significations not accessible through conventional reading habits’”29. This effect has always existed outside of poetry, and has usually been considered as an amusement at best and an annoyance at worst. In one of his “Mathematical Games” columns from Scientific American, Martin Gardner relates the story of Adam Sedgwick, a Cambridge geologist, discovering a “buried poem” on page 44 of the first edition (1911) of William Whewell’s Elementary Treatise on Mechanics, and reciting it as an after-dinner speech:

            There is no force, however great,
Can stretch a cord, however fine,
Into a horizontal line,
Which is accurately straight.

Whewell, himself the author of two books of verse, was not impressed, and changed the text in the book’s second edition to eliminate the rhyme30.

Steve McCaffery expands on the notion of the paragram thoughout his critical writing, arguing that while findables and other sorts of paragrammatic phenomena can be intentionally embedded in a larger text, they are just as often fortuitious occurrences that arise inevitably and unavoidably because of the combinatory nature of writing31. McCaffery also specifies why a complete history of findables is technically impossible: “if form is, as Dennis Hollier proposes, ‘the temptation of discourse to arrest itself, to fix on itself, to finish itself off by producing and appropriating its own end’ (1989, 24), then the paragram stands as form’s heterological object, structured upon nonlogical difference and, as such, impossible to be claimed as an object of knowledge”32. Looking for findables, then, is a tactical negativity that affords a number of possible outcomes. McCaffery lists three: a sophisticated form of artistic production (as in the Surrealist objets trouvé); an opportunity for found texts to become something like a critical or theoretical practice (as in Readymades, Situationist détournement or the work of Bern Porter, found poet par excellence); or a reaffirmation of negativity that equates all meaning with the experience of loss of signification (as in a general economy, or the work of Vanessa Place)33. The first two outcomes are the now-familiar tactics of the historical avant-gardes; the third is that of conceptual writing at its most uncompromising.

But I think that there is also a fourth possibility implicit in McCaffery’s schema that describes the current cultural moment: a system of commercial production that is more than capable of churning out an endless stream of commodifiable objects saturated with effects that were once the privileged provenance of poetry. To the extent that poetry – however traditional or however conceptual – functions in such an environment, it is as a kind of inoculation: poetry on the subway, National Poetry Month etc. as something “good for us” that we encounter so that we can be excused from actually buying books of poetry or attending poetry readings. From the perspective of people ignoring that .12 percent of poetry books purchased out of the total number of books published in Canada per year, there is no effective difference between the poetry world’s various squabbling factions.

Conceptual writing didn’t kill poetry any more than postmodernism killed the author. It displaced what counts in the economy of small-press literature, perhaps, in the same way that postmodernism changed the function of the author. But for all its displacements in terms of what counts as a culturally significant text, conceptual writing leaves its own authors largely intact, and oddly romantically inclined about their own effect on posterity.

As I write this, my friends are all very busy writing manifestoes in response to Johanna Drucker’s “Beyond Conceptualisms: Poetics after Critique and the End of the Individual Voice.” The contentious line, for many of them, is “Conceptualism is probably over now, even in its newest iterations”34. I believe that Drucker’s thesis is essentially correct, and read “over” as shorthand for a whole series of institutionalizations, transformations, affiliations and legitimations that not only interpellates conceptual writing as one stylistic choice among the many that are available to aspiring young poets, but points to the fact that so far, conceptual writing has had nothing interesting or useful to say about the findables that very likely preceded it and have definitely kept pace with it every step of the way. There’s no point in claiming findables for poetry; that trick is now at least a hundred years old. Whether or not conceptual writing gets a second kick at the can will depend on how it comes to grips with its own uncanny double on the outside of the poetic economy. Until then, it’s still back in the building with all the other Elvis fans, oblivious to the limousine driving into the sunset.


Carey, James W. Communication as Culture : Essays on Media and Society. Rev. ed. New York ; London: Routledge, 2009. Print.

Dent, Arthur. “Harry Potter and the Well of Scammers”.  2006.  419 Eater. March 31 2012. <>.

Dewdney, Christopher. Alter Sublime. Toronto: Coach House Press, 1980. Print.

Drucker, Johanna. “Beyond Conceptualisms: Poetics after Critique and the End of the Individual Voice”.  2012. Poetry Project Newsletter. April/May 2012. <>.

Eco, Umberto. A Theory of Semiotics. Advances in Semiotics. Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1976. Print.

Foucault, Michel. Foucault Live: Interviews, 1961-1984. Semiotext(E) Double Agents Series. Ed. Lotringer, Sylvère. New York: Semiotext(e), Columbia U., 1996. Print.

Fresh Air. “To Read or Not to Read: Fresh Air Considers the State of Poetry in Canada”.  Toronto, 2011. Fresh Air.  April 11, 2011 (first aired April 9, 2011):  CBC Books. 2011. <>.

Gardner, Martin. “Mathematical Games: Puns, Palindromes and Other Word Games That Partake of the Mathematical Spirit.” Scientific American 211.3 (1964): 218-24. Print.

Goldsmith, Kenneth. “The Kenny G Letters”.  Electronic Poetry Center, 1999.  SUNY Buffalo. February 14 2012. <>.

—. “May We Graft Chicken Wings to Your Head in the Interest of Aviation”.  New York, 1995.  LCD. February 14 2012. <>.

—. “Paragraphs on Conceptual Writing.” Open Letter Twelfth series.7 (Fall 2005): 98-101. Print.

—. “Uncreativity as a Creative Practice”.  Buffalo, 2000.  Electronic Poetry Center (SUNY Buffalo). 11 November 2009 2009. <>.

Guillory, John. “The Memo and Modernity.” Critical inquiry 31 (2004): 108-32. Print.

Gyford, Phil. The Diary of Samuel Pepys. London2003. Vol. 2012. Print.

Kennedy, Bill, and Darren Wershler. “The Apostrophe Engine”.  Toronto, 2001. February 14 2012. <>.

—. “Status Update”.  Toronto, 2010. February 14 2012. <>.

—. Update. Ed. Fiorentino, Jon Paul. Montreal: Snare, 2010. Print.
Kennedy, Bill, and Darren Wershler-Henry. Apostrophe. Ed. Holmes, Michael. 2006.

Kristeva, Julia. Revolution in Poetic Language. 1974. Trans. Waller, Margaret. New York: Columbia University Press, 1984. Print.

McCaffery, Steve. North of Intention: Critical Writings 1973-1986. 1st ed. New York/Toronto: Roof Books/Nightwood Editions, 1986. Print.

—. Prior to Meaning: The Protosemantic and Poetics. Avant-Garde & Modernism Studies. Evanston: Northwestern University Press, 2001. Print.

McLuhan, Marshall. Understanding Media: The Extensions of Man. Signet Books. 2nd ed. New York, Scarborough, Ont.: New American Library, 1964. Print.

Mohammad, K. Silem. “Sought Poems.” 88: A Journal of Contemporary American Poetry 3 (2003). Print.

Morris, Simon, and Nick Thurston. Getting inside Jack Kerouac’s Head. Dringhouses, York: Information As Material, 2009. Print.

Needleman, Rafe. “Richard Dreyfuss Reads the Itunes Eula”.  CNET Reporters’ Roundtable Podcast, June 8, 2011. MP3. March 31 2012.

Place, Vanessa. “Gone with the Wind Twitter Feed”.  Los Angeles. 14 February 2012. <!/VanessaPlace>.

Pound, Ezra. “Paris Letter: December 1921.” Dial LXXII.1 (1922): 73-78. Print.

Sales, Leila. “The Leila Texts”.  Brooklyn, 2007. March 31, 2012 2012. <>.

  1. Fresh Air, “To Read or Not to Read: Fresh Air Considers the State of Poetry in Canada,” April 11, 2011 (first aired April 9, 2011), 2011, CBC Books, Available: 

  2. Kenneth Goldsmith, “Uncreativity as a Creative Practice,” 2000, Electronic Poetry Center (SUNY Buffalo), Available:, 11 November 2009 2009. 

  3. Kenneth Goldsmith, “Paragraphs on Conceptual Writing,” Open Letter Twelfth series.7 (Fall 2005): 98 ff. 

  4. John Guillory, “The Memo and Modernity,” Critical inquiry 31 (2004): 111.
    [5] Guillory, “The Memo and Modernity,” 113. 

  5. Guillory, “The Memo and Modernity,” 113. 

  6. Guillory, “The Memo and Modernity,” 114. 

  7. Umberto Eco, A Theory of Semiotics, Advances in Semiotics. (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1976) 7. 

  8. Ezra Pound, “Paris Letter: December 1921,” Dial LXXII.1 (1922): 73. 

  9. Marshall McLuhan, Understanding Media: The Extensions of Man, Signet Books, 2nd ed. (New York, Scarborough, Ont.: New American Library, 1964) xi. 

  10. Christopher Dewdney, Alter Sublime (Toronto: Coach House Press, 1980) 77. 

  11. James W. Carey, Communication as Culture: Essays on Media and Society, Rev. ed. (New York ; London: Routledge, 2009) 27. 

  12. Michel Foucault, Foucault Live: Interviews, 1961-1984, Semiotext(E) Double Agents Series, ed. Sylvère Lotringer (New York: Semiotext(e), Columbia U., 1996) 46. 

  13. Phil Gyford, The Diary of Samuel Pepys (London: 2003), vol. 2012. 

  14. Arthur Dent, “Harry Potter and the Well of Scammers,” 2006, 419 Eater, Available:, March 31 2012. 

  15. Leila Sales, “The Leila Texts,” 2007,, Available:, March 31, 2012 2012. 


  17. Rafe Needleman, “Richard Dreyfuss Reads the iTunes EULA,” June 8, 2011, MP3,, March 31 2012. 

  18. K. Silem Mohammad, “Sought Poems,” 88: A Journal of Contemporary American Poetry 3 (2003): Non-paginated Word document. 

  19. Mohammad, “Sought Poems.” 

  20. Mohammad, “Sought Poems.” 

  21. Simon Morris and Nick Thurston, Getting inside Jack Kerouac’s Head (Dringhouses, York: Information As Material, 2009). 

  22. Vanessa Place, Gone with the Wind Twitter Feed, Available:!/VanessaPlace, 14 February 2012. 

  23. Kenneth Goldsmith, “May We Graft Chicken Wings to Your Head in the Interest of Aviation,” 1995, LCD, Available:, February 14 2012. 

  24. Kenneth Goldsmith, “The Kenny G Letters,” 1999, SUNY Buffalo, Available:, February 14 2012. 

  25. Bill Kennedy and Darren Wershler, The Apostrophe Engine, 2001, Available:, February 14 2012. 

  26. Bill Kennedy and Darren Wershler, Status Update, 2010, Available:, February 14 2012. 

  27. Bill Kennedy and Darren Wershler-Henry, Apostrophe, ed. Michael Holmes (Toronto: ECW Press, 2006). 

  28. Bill Kennedy and Darren Wershler, Update, ed. Jon Paul Fiorentino (Montreal: Snare, 2010). 

  29. Julia Kristeva, Revolution in Poetic Language, trans. Margaret Waller (New York: Columbia University Press, 1984) 256. 

  30. Martin Gardner, “Mathematical Games: Puns, Palindromes and Other Word Games That Partake of the Mathematical Spirit,” Scientific American 211.3 (1964): 220. 

  31. Steve McCaffery, North of Intention: Critical Writings 1973-1986, 1st ed. (New York/Toronto: Roof Books/Nightwood Editions, 1986) 208-09. 

  32. Steve McCaffery, Prior to Meaning: The Protosemantic and Poetics, Avant-Garde & Modernism Studies (Evanston: Northwestern University Press, 2001) 13. 

  33. McCaffery, Prior to Meaning, 14. 

  34. Johanna Drucker, “Beyond Conceptualisms: Poetics after Critique and the End of the Individual Voice,” 2012, Available:, April/May 2012.