Poem gay brothers field hold alex dimitrov
If you have a pulse and are a human being and want to have sex with other human beings—to be hurt, praised, desired, ridiculed, and occasionally loved by them—then the work of these poets is essential. His is work that speaks up for itself—confident in its sweeping metaphysical pronouncements, unafraid to be heard. You are so in love with love. You are carving out another heart, you are filling it with nothing see-through. You must kill your boyfriends.
CONTINUE TO BILLING/PAYMENT
A Beautiful Child Grows Up: Queer Poet Alex Dimitrov on His Latest Book
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When he first mentioned his idea for the Wilde Boys, a salon for gay male poets in New York, I was supportive but skeptical. Every salon I had ever gone to always seemed to turn into an un-moderated workshop, and as a workshop instructor, it seemed more like an extension of my workday than a pleasurable evening out. But Alex proved me delightfully wrong, and the Wilde Boys are truly salons—discussion groups that yield exciting and compelling conversation, as well as providing introduction to wonderful poets. His poems are personal and direct, driven by personas that he beautifully conjures out of autobiography, pop culture, and the traditions of American poetry.
Ours was a funeral for the living, a specifically queer ritual of seeking solace in the days closest to solstice. Both Capote's essay and Dimitrov's new book examine the proximity of our public and private selves, of the living and the dead. Dimitrov has written a book that blurs geographies—subjects separated by screens, state lines, bodies of water, bodies that might not be here anymore.