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If I didn't write a blurb
for Megan Volpert's book, she would probably write a poem about that fact, which would be o.k. -- because her stuff is
actually quite sharp and amusing. Megan
Volpert excavates the heart of non-fence with a surgeon's scalpel and a poet's umbrella on an operating table. Equal
parts whimsy, collision, and erudition, this is an amazing
pop linguistics addition to the literature of the de-sensive.
Not since the Nature
Theater of Oklahoma has such a cast of characters been recruited in the name of narrative
theory and good clean fun. Starring icons of culture high and low, from Slavoj Zizek to Simon Cowell, from Akira Kurosawa
to Will Ferrell, Volpert’s essay on nonsense is a technicolor triumph.
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Just
when you thought confessional poetry had collapsed in a dank crypt, driven there in white Volvos by secretly sybaritic
academics (those brave souls dwelling on the abyss of their sensitivity) who have written some of the very best poems about
the immense difficulties of doing simple things, like buying fresh asparagus and artichokes or taking out the trash on a moonlit
night while the neighbor’s unmanageable dog is peering at you, along comes Megan Volpert, a
rascal who managed to escape from a genie’s bottle and doesn’t want our sympathy. Her poetry is impolite, mocking, razor sharp, tough as a saint’s sandals, funny, unexpected, and refreshing.
I admire the poet who put “acanthus glaucopareius” and a “thousand drooling debutantes” in the same
line.
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