see the post "i like sutree" for details; send me more of these; napowrimo #23 literary critcism as poetry

K SILEM MOHAMMAD ON MIKE YOUNG: "Mike Young's sometimes painfully multivalent hollering comes at a time when we were just getting used to a bunch of weak shit being at the center of this, what, this pantomime passing itself off as a dedicated dialectic about/with/towards lettered competence now, today, in (hoo boy) full-throated AMERICAN BOHEMIANISM. The comic enjambment barely begins to account for it. What we are really chewing on here are our own inverted esophagi, spangled with the nonchalant ratatouille flecks of whatever reamed-out discourse looked "OK" at the time. Mike Young is not down with that. Wake the fuck up."

MIKE YOUNG ON K SILEM MOHAMMAD: "The degrees to which K Silem Mohammad's anti-flatulent elegies borrow from the rhetorical stances of Ashbery, Jay-Z, and syphilis have all been explored in prior discourse, but Australian critics often miss Mohammad's solemn and macaroonian open-field weaving of Ginsberg's "column of breath" with Pete Sampras's legendary monotone. In flitting between Butlerian notions of gender performance and whatever's left in the fridge, Mohammad captures a whirligig of contemporary light fixture instructions. Through his famous pantoum and lục bát hybrids "wait" and "brb"--bolstered by the cumulative finger fuck of his two long works SHIT SOCKS: A CRITIQUE OF LATE MODEL ENVIRONMENTAL CAPITALISM AS NARRATED BY VIRGIL and EVERYONE I KNOW IS INSIDE MY PANTS--Mohammad has built a reputation as the only Tanzanian poet who can simultaneously navigate the space of shoe goo and the space of, well, space."


Josh Maday said...

Mike Young's words dig into the mind with their pointy-sharp chin. Bleeding becomes a matter of comic enjambment, and one's external uterus swells with milkweed and ragweed and fetusweed, swimming in the othernight, lying still at the bottom, encased in the swaggering current, hair floating, sliding back and forth. Mike Young's words ritualize and thrust violently, a wild chimp wielding dagger and penis and classic Darwinian phallic accuracy, impregnating, inseminating, joining elements together in a tissue of meaning, creating a sticky context embedded with tumors of absence, abstractions of life and death and the sex that brings them together. Obscene sanctity: an old woman with one saggy tit exposed as though to breastfeed the public. Her name: Joyce. Her other tit: missing in action. Nipple incarcerated in a glass jar filled with dish soap. Along with screws and tires and TV trays. And, finally, a praying mantis trying in vain to extract a drop of milk. Mike Young's words do this. Mike Young's words are hungry. Comic enjambment. Comic enjambment.

Daniel Bailey said...

mike young's poems read like a a cultural critique written by an alien living inside a radio station that plays nothing but a tribe called quest and songwriters influenced by bob dylan. his comic enjambment brings to mind shakespeare, if shakespeare had been part wookie and wanted nothing more than to be part android, part biodome, part human genome project, part mfa student that knows what documents were invented for framing and what documents were invented for feeding to iguanas. i would let mike young have sex with my sister, if i had a sister. mike, stay away from my mother.