Among his admirers, bill bissett is Blakean, avant-garde, an artist known for his phonetic spelling, concrete poetry, and dramatic readings—the man who, as Christian B�k declares: “has misspelled his way so deeply into the hearts of readers everywhere…” Called “Poetry’s bad boy bill bissett” and “lower-case bill,” critics have described bill bissett’s work as “a meal of Coke and corn chips,” “pentecostal,” and “pseudo-cultural vaudeville.” One review asks: “Poet or peacock? Exhibitionist clown ruins things for serious artists.” I have always had an aversion to intentionally misspelled words on signs and in advertisements, even as a child. There’s a cuteness to Kool Aid I find nauseous. I seem to have been born with strong opinions about language, and a sensitivity to spelling, alliteration, and metaphor. Once, I wanted a gin drink named “Mountain Mistress,” but I couldn’t say those words. And another time, on another menu, a sandwich called “The Happy Waitress”—I had to order something else. I am skeptical of lower case lettering except on handwritten notes, and skeptical of e.e. cummings with his insistence on smallness. I am skeptical of short author bios: “Anne Carson was born in Canada and teaches ancient Greek for a living.” Unless you’re Anne Carson, a bio this short and casual is, in fact, unforgivably pretentious—that’s how I feel about it. However: Nobody owns th earth. The title of this book by bill bissett defamiliarizes language just enough to make an impact: th earth. The vulnerability of that one missing e affects me.
-Morgan English