Muldoon: The Pontoon Poet

A mysterious commenter responds to Behrle's Muldoon musing and I think I know who this is but I'm not prepared to reach across the aisle for confirmation. Let's make it a straight up-or-down vote of approval. I abstain.

I disagree with nearly everything in the above post.

It's my right as a faithful YM sub to dissent -- toward everything but the pink (no arguing from the whitey with the Jeep beats -- boom, boom). The New Yorker is not a place to break new poets. That honor is reserved for the far stall of the Magician, where, in addition to AK leaving sonnets dedicated to his own unidentified young man with outstanding physical and intellectual attributes -- the bean burrito molder across the street -- new, break-through verse from the underground can be found. Zines be damned. The avant-garde shits on the glass of the Xerox those rags are created with.

The New Yorker is for the establishment. Sure, hip young things like John Updike and Seymour M. Hersh chose to grace its pages rather than, say, Vice, but they're the exception, not the rule. The real cool kids sub to such out-there, outre pubs like Chicago, Poetry, and Verse. (Mono speaks louder than deadpan.) Kidding. The cool kids are too busy fucking. Poetry is for wankers who think being puked on by Buk is an honor. If he duked on you, I'd agree.

Just know your venue, that's what I'm saying. Despite how much it's really where he deserves to be, you wouldn't look for Bansky in Highlights for Children.

Poet Boreate | 09.26.07 - 11:39 am