What do you get when conversational Frank O' Hara reincarnates to travel to Vietnam pre- and post-Vietnam war? When plain-dictioned Ron Padgett meets pre-AIDS sexual ecstacy? When benign Kenneth Koch meets 2000s cynicism? When Joe Brainard, Ted Berrigan, Bernadette Mayer, Tony Towle and others skip and bop and belch off a curb in Greenwich Village into Ho Chi Minh City? When these N.Y.C.-center-of-the-world poets shoulder an international political edge without losing their irrepressible, city-wracked sense of humor?
You get Linh Dinh, in American Tatts, the 2005 flag-bearer of the New York School of Poetry.
Last night, fifth night with a fever, as I lay down to try to get more sleep than I did the night before, the phrase "Glorious sleep" popped into my head. I closed my eyes and watched a battle of images Blake and Milton would have been in awe of: blunt dark-blue shapes pounding down, on dull, ground-down coals, which coughed up balls of fire as there only, futile defense. I don't know how long I watched this battle on the back of my eyelids. I woke this morning thinking that Blake just may have had a low-grade fever for decades.