Textual bodies need orifices; text with no flesh is anorexic.
Poetry needs Bodies; know who your Bodies are.
Horizontal leads to Lateral, text-wise.
Poetry needs a new materialism.
The Academy left Deconstruction behind years ago; so should poetry. For once, we need to catch up to the Academy.
Be material but not crass.
Impersonal forces are stronger than personal ones. How is poetry created from this? By the skin of our teeth.
Rule of thumb: nothing Big without Narrative. Great poets address great themes directly. Great poems are felt philosophy.
From Freud, paraphrased: new contexts create conditions for textual orgasms. Thus, the Internet.
Tremble before poetry, not poets.
Moral relativity: the only moral concern that matters. Morality is Ethics for Dummies.
There is no lens to see a text through that isn't tinted. Where text is concerned, idiosyncrasy is always preponderant. And material.
Try a little tenderness. But not too much.
Enough money is enough.
Perversity from one angle is generosity from another. It depends where you stand.
I know how you look to me. I can imagine how I look to you. Health consists of making composites.
Loving and hating America is the beginning of a great affair.
Life is arbitrary and contingent. Providence is a department store mannequin.
Sex is the dominant arena in which things change but do not change. Thus, season tickets are mandatory for serious artists. Sit in the bleachers if you have to.
Sex only becomes distasteful if it is represented in one dimension.
Most Americans do not know most of America. The vastness of America is its bane and its glory.
from Something Solid: Miscellaneous Sonnets: Portal-ways
Was it through you, Abby, I managed to do
Queer Studies 101? Here’s what I saw: you
aligned yourself with bad girls, to make yourself
look formidable, lived a life of intermittent
lassitude & discipline, tawny head bent down
to study coded missives you dared not decipher,
and then the bittersweet aftermath into postures
you earned for yourself. Girls in a row, a pretense
for an artist of your magnitude. Was that all
you had inside you? I wonder, but it’s none of
my business, as the Neo-Classical portal-way
built into your brain hovers around the Earth
for a few centuries, and the paintings themselves
form a row, disciplined, formidable, coded, bittersweet—
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