LESS AND LESS HUMAN, O SAVAGE HEART Whether this fellow’s self-pityIs pious, self-righteous or bothThere’s simply no help.Only that greed to consumeWhat’s pretty triggered his needTo vomit his whelp. [ButIn lieu of a URL or linkFrom genius Tricia,I offer instead this proofThat Ed Ochester,Ellen Voight, and whoeverIs calling the shots at the tepidU. of Iowa--could it still beThat upwardly mobileHarvard twot, Jorie Graham’s Ex?--are in the head soft.]********************ELEGY ON A TOY PIANO You don't need a pony to connect you to the unseeable or an airplane to connect you to the sky. Necessary it is to die if you are a living thing which you have no choice about. Necessary it is to love to live and there are many manuals but in all important ways one is on one's own. You need not cut off your hand. No need to eat a bouquet. Your head becomes a peach pit your tongue a honeycomb. Necessary it is to live to love, to charge into the burning tower then charge back out and necessary it is to die.Even for the grass, even for the pony connecting you to what can't be grasped. The injured gazelle falls behind the herd. One last wild enjambment. Because of the sores in his mouth, the great poet struggles with a dumpling. His work has enlarged the world but the world is about to stop including him. He is the tower the world runs out of. When something becomes ash, there's nothing you can do to turn it back. About this, even diamonds do not lie. Dean Young
Oh, I don't know. "He is the tower the world runs out of" is a pretty good line. Though I'll admit that I generally enjoy individual lines of his work more than I enjoy entire poems.
you art is becoming genius, like you. i'm not a bit surprised.xo
WOLF NATIONWe invented skinning the scalp,Named mountains and athletic teamsFor the sliced bald and bleedingIndigenes we shamed in life and death,Then slapped on the wall of a bankA Picasso beside a Van Gogh,Crying with mute, exultant pride,“How’s that for your unincorporatedCreation of wealth, commie beatnik One-eared red-beard!” Cousins Still in Britain, where ancients Kicked without touching The heads of conquered adversariesOver fields of frozen green, crowdFootball matches mainly to riot, Smother and vomit: the plan Is to cover the planet with swill The mob calls fun, innocentAs urgent water-boarding, safeTherefore pristine, proclaiming “We the impervious just don't care If our hands are dirty or clean!”* * *(On the theme of young Dean'sTeflon, tiptoe through the tulips,Ballyhoed irreverence, a surrealistBeing one for whom the boring Is interesting because the interesting Is for them so boring;I.e., the delicate onionAnd labyrinth of gynecology.)
Rebecca! That is the nicest thing anyone has ever said to a person who has no idea what anything in the world looks like.
a surrealistBeing one for whom the boringIs interesting because the interestingIs for them so boringZING! Yet how you can decry surrealism in the same comments box as you honor my glowing doe-vom escapes my comprehension, truly.
THE VIEW FROM BELOWNothing teflonAbout thee, cherie,Who we decryClumping throughThe tulips, hotAs a Scotch Bonnet,N'est-ce pas?Your young Dean,However, is a drearyEpicine, and if IMay make so bold, Don't let your HostessTea run cold, or everGet grouchy and old As curmudgeonly me.
Epicene? Really? Indeed, what a neutersexual Dean Young must be, to write poems you don't like! If only he wrote more poems comparing vaginas to peat bogs, we would know more truly his intentions and his worth. Unacceptable; you are PUNISHED.
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