Burlesque Press has published my review of Dan Chelotti's new book of poetry, x. If you like wry ironic poems, or poems about junk food, or about birds, lions, death, and King Lear, you should might like the book, and the review.
I always think
about heaven when I
am at the dump.
The birds that are
supposed to travel
freely between
the land of the living
and the dead really
like the dump.
(This is Chelotti)
In the review, I also wax prophetical about the future of literature and the human self, channelling a hefty dose of Canadian super-critic Northrop Frye.
My wider question about x, however, and contemporary poetry in general, is how sustainable such irony will turn out to be. Over and over, Chelotti appears to be stating two contradictory theses:
1. My life is trivial and thus unworthy of poetry.
2. My thoughts and feelings are the only possible subject of poetry.
(This is me.)
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