This week it’s all sports: discus, rowing, paragliding, gymnastics, bowling, cestoball, motocross, danball, football, kyudo, BMX racing, haggis hurling, goalball, relay races, rackelton, ski touring, futsal, angling, hammer throw, american handball, underwater hockey, modern dance, jazz dance, irish dance, matball, steeple chase, athletics (track and field), trick shot snooker, bullfighting, broomball, motor boat racing, hurdling, badminton, elephant polo, sports using bicycles or unicycles.....
Or so the headers of the most recent emails in the trash folder read. Last week was truncated news feeds, snippets of headlines. Before that, misspelled drug names. Next week, who knows? But a few winters ago it was suddenly like the ‘70s all over again: short phrases sounding like nothing so much as lines of early Language Poetry, as if the spam engine were randomly pulling from Bruce Andrews’ notebooks. A Poetry Daily of the avant-garde. Within the week, they had completely changed again, suddenly on to something new, one step ahead of the filters.
I saved them all, intending to recycle the headers into a readymade chapbook. But by the time I got around to it, the idea of the “spam poem” was already old hat; everybody, it seemed, had done one. The moment of the project had passed. I put the file on a hard drive and forgot about it until the invitation to publish something “unpublishable” reminded me of the aborted plan. Here, belatedly, they return — unedited and in sequence — a little farce following the minor tragedy of a history missed.