Never trust a city poet. Their minds run too fast and they parse every phrase, looking for some semblance of connection. But a city defies all these easily-bared assertions, particularly if the city is itself dying. Its poets either withdraw into the reductive technical tools of generalized hopes of enhancement or, worse, struggle to catch and contain the entire essence of the undertaking, and one night, confounded by a delivery truck making its 5 AM drop of the already-obsolete early edition, the poet will sink into the asphalt, consumed by what she swore to yoke under her, and then where will you be?
March 11, 2009, 12:09am Comments
