As Already Happens, by Samuel Gilpin

Poetry, chapbook, 40 pages, from Bottlecap Features.

As Already Happens is less a poem than an unraveling—an excavation of perception, a recursive knot of language folding in on itself, resisting, always resisting, the impulse toward clarity. It does not present itself for easy reading. It stutters, loops, interrupts its own train of thought, a fugue of recurrence where meaning is conjured and then immediately destabilized. The speaker is both architect and wrecking crew, laying down linguistic structures only to watch them collapse beneath the weight of their own insufficiency. It begins with the world, or at least the fragments of it that can be held in words—mid summer grass browns, dark irises hang in the darkness—but the world here is not static, not descriptive, not even representational. It is instead the shimmer of perception itself, language attempting, failing, attempting again to fix meaning in place. The poem’s structure is incantatory, the phrases circling back on themselves like a prayer forgetting its own deity, each variation a slight shift, a fracture widening, a recognition that certainty is a mirage.

The core of its interrogation—if there can even be said to be a core—is agency. Who speaks, who writes, who moves the hand that inscribes? The poet, the self, the voice: each is slippery, unmoored, flickering between presence and erasure. “If agency is reclaimed / it is never clear / what is at stake.” The assertion negates itself even as it asserts, an epistemic ouroboros where the act of naming, the very gesture toward knowledge, is suspect. And yet, the necessity to name, to inscribe, to leave some residue of articulation remains. The poet reaches toward expression but finds only the instability of language itself words that refuse to behave, that mutate in the act of utterance. The text, aware of its own limitations, collapses into paradox: “This is only a label labeling / and not an explanation.” Meaning recedes even as it is invoked, a post-structuralist lament, a Deleuzian unraveling, a critique of signification itself. And yet, what else is there? To speak is to misname, to remain silent is to disappear.

The poem’s final gestures are less resolution than surrender—though even surrender is an act, a decision, a final articulation. The speaker, body or not body, mind or not-mind, stands at the edge of articulation: “for I am (thus / and thus) / and thus still a body / without organs.” The phrase shatters the I, flattens it, leaves it open, raw, potential. The self here is not an entity but an event, an ongoing process of becoming that refuses containment. This is not merely a rejection of coherence but an embrace of fluidity, a recognition that the act of creation is never a fixing in place but a constant undoing, a perpetual reconfiguration. As Already Happens does not offer conclusions because conclusions imply containment, and this is a poem that insists on motion, on the ceaseless flickering between presence and absence, voice and silence, assertion and collapse. It is not meaning that emerges, but movement language in its most unstable, most vital state, circling, searching, insistent.

Samuel Gilpin is a poet living in Portland, OR, who holds a Ph.D. in English Lit. from the University of Nevada, Las Vegas, which explains why he works as a door to door salesman. A Prism Review Poetry Contest winner, he has served as the Poetry Editor of Witness Magazine and Book Review Editor of Interim. A Cleveland State University First Book Award finalist, his work has appeared in various journals and magazines, most recently in The Bombay Gin, Omniverse, and Colorado Review. His chapbook Self-Portraits as a Reddening Sky was published by Cathexis Press. He occasionally blogs on the intersection of poetry, consciousness, and personal development at samuelgilpin.com.