multi-urinal twilit sea/
by Aliki Sotiropoulou
Sometimes as poets we worry the audience may demand only the purest crystallizations of language. This book somehow provides for this sensation over and over. Words would seem to attach themselves to Will Edmiston’s body and his disentanglement down onto the page becomes part and parcel of the melody itself. Reading through this book I felt surrounded by collapsible structures I could both see through and live inside of. Even on the brink of coming apart this poetry always provides a foothold, “the source in forms/ hire bins with/ a little green overhead.” I hear shades of Steve Carey, Larry Eigner, Joanne Kyger, Stacy Szymaszek, the great Arlo Quint, before being suddenly swept out, past any recognizable spirit or measure, where only mythic landscape remains. “The chimes/grind wind.” We should be grateful they were blown apart and left so far flung, now collected as Light Demolition.
Will Edmiston’s poems, largely written in a landscape of changing Brooklyn, have a habit of demolishing themselves. The birds in the “full brown sky” desolve into fading typeset. The poems are a lake reflecting the landscape they settle and melt into exactness. From the racket “above the metal bar” [pun intended] comes a source of play, sadness, and various forms of light. Nothing is ever settled here - but should you need it, there is beauty to guide you.
...amazing weird and full of light demolition...everything sideways is also omnidirectional...great subway read too, which is the fucking litmus of eternity...