They say that the language of birds is the closest to that of the divine. They also say that poetry is the unacknowledged legislator of the world. In BIRD ARSONIST, Tom Prime and Gary Barwin–like all good avant-gardists–flip these commonplaces on their heads, showing that poetry sets alight any transparent, easy, lawful language, or is precisely what language spits out as it turns to ash. Compressed to the point of implosion, the poems that make up this volume are contorted descendants of Dadaism, Surrealism, and every other -ism. Prime and Barwin confront poetry’s contemporary preference for confession and today’s digitization of reality not only by–as they are two–using a doubled I, but also by letting language elide the human-all-too-human hand of authorship as such. The author of BIRD ARSONIST is language tout court, sonorous and fragmentary. Prime and Barwin have merely done the job of giving it the room to speak, of keeping it infected, of making visible the outline of its splinters and its cuts. Shake gently!

Poetry. Art.