Jordan Scott is the author of Silt (2005) and, blert (2008), Decomp (2013), a collaboration with Stephen Collis and the ecosphere of British Columbia, and Night & Ox (2016). Scott’s chapbooks include Clearance Process (SMALL CAPS 2017), and Lanterns at Guantánamo (Simon Fraser University). Both chapbooks treat his experience after being allowed access to Guantanamo Bay in April 2015. Scott was the 2015/16 Writer-in-Residence at Simon Fraser University and publishes with Broc Rossell at The Elephants (www.theelephants.net).


By Jordan Scott • 2017 •  $10
Design by Jeff Sanner

Jordan Scott has written several important volumes of poetry over the past dozen years, including Blert (Coach House Books, 2008), about his life as a stutterer, DECOMP (Coach House Books, 2013), with Stephen Collis, which investigates copies of The Origin of Species by Charles Darwin after a year of decomposition in different forests in British Columbia. He is now engaged in work about interrogation in Guantanamo Bay, Abu Ghraib, and by the Vancouver Police Department. In other words, he is fascinated by disruption, linguistic obstacle, ecological breakdown, hesitation. In Dawn, Scott turns his powers of attention (in reverie) to the natural world, parsing what he sees in brief “blerts” of text separated by spaces. Hence:

“Pink-purple green-yellow red-purple inches of tan-yellow pink-purple, with ½ inch pinkish-purple, dark purple partially red-purple, a red-purple arm, dark-purple patchy-red pink-purple dark-purple red-purple red-dark purple inch.
What falls out when we shake a tree? Shake the tintic­ture of scent? Nostrils, amniotic sacs – what bursts?”

His are meditations on the materiality of the world, materialized as a map by Tinfish Press’s designer, Jeff Sanner. They may seem solitary, but engage with communities of family, philosophy (Nancy) and literature (Kafka).


It goes without saying that the ear is ever open; that little loops in front of mouth are attention encased bubbles; contained in breath like a purpose. Circles without circumferences; cartwheel galaxies. Full blown sun. Gently, we think in such substances, a breath from face to face; sun from peasant to field to bowl to body. Oral curves bear fruit. “Say, don’t speak with your mouth full.” Costume sun; drench and dry. I’ve given it up to you. Some hearts tell something good. Some hearts are together against seasons; some hearts are low hung fruit. It’s all I’ve ever wanted. A way to speak precise, quiet and with climate. A way to lounge in sun; flexible radiance, heat that’s nothing new to me. It is very bright in the sun. The birds wake us and I am gone from your belly to slowly rise. To set upon some truth in the day as not open, as not a yawning gap, but a mass; the massiveness of our bodies spooning together. Monstrous cuddled forms. Under light, we look silly. My tiny expenditure to your few grams. Under one body, cadence of another body. What a surprise. What unmanageable forms. Say, “the sun hunts us;” all this brightness, getting brighter. This almost very bright in which I’m all that I ever will be. It’s all I’ve ever wanted. To wake up over and over again in this small movement universe. To sun myself. My voice of an angel. Before breakfast and the fall away from warmth.