'Translate the Bible into velociraptor'? Yes, we can
Weird. In what I can only guess is The New Yorker's attempt to join in this month's spirit of hope, unity and a post-ideological politics of citizenship, this week it's published a poem that is at once from the avant-ish side of the aisle and not by John Ashbery or Charles Simic or some other safe grey eminence but in fact by a grad student. Or, put another way, a poem by a young poet that is not about mourning one's spouse by the slant of winter light on lobster bisque. Quick, someone tell me this guy is William Shawn's sister's chiropractor's grandson or something, so I can relax again and enjoy the 40 below.