I'm all for irreverence, as you know--the kind of guy who teaches his kids to chant "MI-cha-MO-cha [clap, clap, clap-clap-clap]" to the rhythm of the Yankees' "Who's your Daddy?" taunt from last year, but Emily Lloyd has linked to a poem by Timothy Liu that has thrown even me back on my heels:
xxxxxxxxxAs wives across America settle into
rerun mode. As their frequent-flyer
xxxxxxxxxhusbands deplane in a podunk town—
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxpockets full of skin-flick brass. Hot
xxxxxxxxxfor dick and liking it too—world-class
poolside abs keeping me from Paul
xxxxxxxxxCelan—the ashen hair of Shulamite
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxno match for hunky jizz. The pathos
xxxxxxxxxof my being here probing a stranger’s
ass—crack-stench left on a wedding
xxxxxxxxxband that won’t come off with soap.
I'm going to post more about this after my NEH seminar this morning. For now, let me just say that for the first time, I really understand--not just intellectually, but in my kishkes--Michael Palmer's disgust with poetry being seen as "a thing for the hammock and lemonade."
More soon. E--