I invoked John Ashbery in previous post, which I'm sure if Sean Finney saw, would exasperate, as if he were a subdivision of JA. I do such likening all the time, it's a manner of handhold for me, but I know it could be read as a confinement. I don't mean Finney is channelling, nor am I even suggesting that Finney might feel that connection. I've managed to package him in Ashberian wrapper nonetheless, which is not my intent. misuse of such likening can be egregious, as Dan Hoy helpfully illustrates in Jacket 28. he lumps flarfists together, he lumps Googlers together, all within the sofa soft confines of Boolean critique. I worked for a company that was bought by Harvard MBAs, who decision-treed the company to its least functionability, and Hoy proceeds similarly. how he glommed onto such a moral tone in the circs is beyond me, but I wasn't really going to go clout on him here. still, when he directs his inquest to the point of phrases like "dick-waving", I think animus took his scooter. returning to Finney, I had a slow entrance to his work just as I had a slow entrance to Brandon Downing's. I don't need to bring up any wattage concerns I may have about myself, I actually do not mind my tentativeness towards poetry. the untentative, the utterly definite, like Hoy, are the ones who do the damage. part of my difficulty to enter the work of Downing and Finney stems from a whirling few months, having moved and made big changes. my concentration level is piss poor. and I'm still burying my father. so I'm having trouble making the leaps that both Finney and Downing do so well. I just want to wave my wand (ce n'est pas mon dick) to function up a welcoming glow for you around these two writers, as the pleasures that have gotten thru my fog are genuine and tough.