proximoception

O you have no idea. Cruising the contemporary lit mag scene in some attempt to be productive is physically grating. Nothing makes you never want to write again quite like the writing of your peers. Look over at Octopus Magazine. I've always wanted to enjoy this magazine, since it's the best-designed electronic mag out there, always attracting heavy hitters, always even-tempered, a big part of the scene from even before it opened (I remember Kris Kahn talking to me about it before the first issue, being very impressed with the editors, how it's one to watch.) But the poetry is such shit. All surrealism and artifice, masks on masks dancing on each other, the poetic equivalent of going through a particularly violent car wash.

I want someone to explain to me the ethos of this school of thought, I'm sure I'm missing something.