Late Review 03

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"A new weapon in the war against explosions:
EXPLOSIONS! Hearing aids may explode!"
from "Watch for Exploding Cells"
in Fake Math
by Ryan Fitzpatrick
Snare Books, 2007
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Fake Math is the wacky, début volume of poetry by Ryan Fitzpatrick, a writer who takes his inspiration from Flarf by recombining the results of Internet searches in order to generate poetry that provides an incisive, sardonic critique of contemporary, sociological discourse. Calling to mind the caustic attacks in the work of a poet like Bruce Andrews, this book constitutes a witty, but angry, diatribe against the stupefying banalities of globalized capitalism: "Is it wrong to ask who will rule?"
Fitzpatrick in his epigraph cites Karl Marx, who argues that "[m]oments are the elements of profit"—and for Fitzpatrick, the calculation of value under capitalism requires a "fake math" that can consider no variable other than the profit-margin when judging the merits of any symbolic exchange (including language itself, where "meaning" constitutes a desired surplus). Fitzpatrick argues that poetry must not record such "meaningful moments" so much as upturn their "discursive economy."
Fitzpatrick enters into this economy by trading "[a]ll this fake math for productivity"—repeatedly exchanging "a poem that holds water for a poem that needs a catheter." He extracts lines from blogdexes and chatrooms, juxtaposing and recombining these disposable statements into uproarious, but disturbing, non sequiturs, all of which parody the illogical condition of our modern milieu. He lampoons a capital economy, where "[e]galitarianism is a big word," and where "[h]elp is a commie threat."
Fitzpatrick goes on to showcase the inanities of our oblivious citizenry, quoting at every turn our bewilderment: "[i]f I get slutty, will I still/ heart bunnies and duckies?" Acerbically, Fitzpatrick underscores the intellectual disaffection of younger writers, who despite their advanced training, have seen nothing but disappearing opportunities for both academic service and artistic subsidy. "Dear Spongebob," he asks (as if seeking career-advice from a cartoon persona): "how can I make/ a life from non sequiturs?"
Fitzpatrick avers that "these are poems about how we live, work, and play within larger structures of capitalism and how our attempts to move past these structures are largely failed attempts at rebellion, not real attempts at revolution or, better yet, escape." The rancour in his tone suggests that, for the youth of today, hip-hop posturing has replaced activism, and poetry can only "pull a glock on this shit" and "minstrel this shit up" by testifying to its own miscalculations—"[d]oes this add up…?"