“a poetry of reckless thinking, paranoid intent, and madly twirling bullshit detectors.” Let’s get on to it, shall we?
Let’s have dangerous, trouble-making, side-sinister, cantankerous, mean poetry. Let`s have pure-damn evil poetry.
Looking out my kitchen window, having watched a red-tailed hawk stoop and carry off a baby rabbit, I thought of safe, anecdotal glop moved around with a spatula into something resembling a poetics and I thought, We have to talk about the bloody carcass that little bunny has become. And, yes, the magnificence of the hawk`s swoop and implacability of his yellow eye.
But then I put such thoughts aside, studied the daffodils poking through the dirty snow, hoped my sides would stop aching from the exertions of shoveling snow, and forgot the horror in the window and the surfeit of harmless and inoffensive poetry
Until, that is, my favorite literary gazette, The Times Literary Supplement, arrived with a back-of-the-book reminder that the language poet and critic Charles Bernstein had once declared that April is the cruelest…
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