“It is 4:30 p.m.
In two weeks, it will still be 4:30 p.m.
In one year, it will be 4:30 p.m.
It will take some time…a lot of time. A lot of time to understand what a minute is. What an hour, a day is. What five minutes is. Will these five minutes last as long as those five minutes?”
Today marks, twice, the publication of “Five Minutes” by Jackson B. Smith, a young American writer, born during a heatwave in the shadow of a suburban New York shopping mall.
His poems owe as much to the dial of his watch as they do to Frank O’Hara or to Pierre Guyotat’s Éden, Éden, Éden.
—four pages, bound by sewing machine—one euro per page—first edition limited to thirty copies—in French or in English—