Saturday, April 29, 2017


Geof Huth, shell pwoermds (29 April 2017)
The month is nearly over, yet the pwoermds won't be. I likely won't write at least one object pwoermd a month, but I'll still make pwoermds. I am trapped in a cycle, more a cycling, a process, a movement, a sinkhole. I am moving through the word every day, lost in language's ability to give up sense to us and to give up on sense, trapped in the punful life, too much of language to live without its play, ingrained with language, dipped in the baptismal waters, yet never brought back up. I am firmly of the word, unitary but not uniform; the pun, multitudinous and confusible; and the pwoermd, ordinary and revelatory. There is no way out.