Thursday, September 29, 2005


kari edwards WRITES IN:

Eileen Tabios’s new work has the kind of nasty habits anyone would be proud of, pounding each and every minute space between each and every archaic edification with the sex majik of Alister Crowley, as if the negative demarcations of ink, the slashes and gashes represent the anagrammatic lingams that ignited the paris revolution that revolted against itself, as if Gertrude Stein was Carrie Nation was Phoolan Devi was Kali who gyrates above us in a blood dance of our delusional language, as if as if and as if if.


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