Trisha Low left a trail of dead this spring, and to help you follow along:
Here is the first of a few “National Poetry Month” posts for the Poetry Foundation:
I mean the truth is that poetry is not anything really that morally superior or good or exciting, it’s like not even as good as the green frosting on a CVS cupcake that could maybe redeem itself because it tastes 0.5% like a jolly rancher…
Here is Low’s series On Being Hated from the SFMoma’s Open Space blog:
From heavy leather jackets to tattoos, subcultural markers tend to also become visual calcifications of form, stiff materialization without which there is only reason to flee, or worse still, no reason not to die. Another word for existence is survival. Maybe without performing being-hated, whatever bullshit pain you feel is only a fucking compromise. Maybe performing being-hated is a simple case of desiring better, wanting different.
Here at Lemonhound is a book review she wrote, sizing up Brandon Brown and Steven Zultanski’s new books:
Like it or not, the feminine confessional has transmutated itself from male fascination to a mode of transgression, revenge, cold-blooded violence, out of necessity – because the fetishism surrounding this genre has always at least ensured that the work is even read. The feminine confessional can do. But this has always come at a higher cost to the author. We are weak, or vulnerable and sexy because of it, we are nuts, or narcissistic, or should drown ourselves à la Virginia Woolf. We are cute but talentless.
And another good book is Ben Fama’s Fantasy. Low and Fama discuss at The Believer:
You’re very unflappable. I’m trying to embarrass you here.
I’ve wanted to write about The Compleat Purge for a while, however, I’ve felt prevented from doing so by the fact that the book is, in a sense, a step ahead of me: it’s already dialoging with the thinkers and theoretical frameworks that I, as a critic, would like to put it into conversation with. Trisha is a poet who does theory: her work contains the critical apparatus through which to apprehend it. The Compleat Purge writes its own review. The Compleat Purge swallows the place of the critic.