So, I have tried to track The Irreparable--the destruction of exprience, the shattered transcendentals, the current enormity--in the recognition of these for what they are--as if by chance to discover an opening into our contemporary task: "to redefine the concept of the transcendental in terms of its relation with language." I call this the poiesis of thought--or more simply the honest work of language--never an afterthought, for we are inside The Irreparable. We are as we are implications of it. Infants of the task. Infants in the language of it. I have studied and loved the footsteps (yes, you can love footsteps--think of your own--these footprints are news of us)--into the poiesis of The Irreparable--thus, in Jean Paul, Nerval, Baudelaire, Mallarme, Rimbaud and Jarry--in the currents and cross-currents of modernism and in the mis-said postmodernism--the poiesis of these footprints in the poetry since 1945, Jack Spicer pressing the shifting sands of this irreparable aporia--the sundered, risky, refounding language of so many--the astonishment of such honesty that transforms the poiesis into beauty out for this walk with ugliness.