A late-night, drunken three-way between Joan Didion, Roland Barthes, and Susan Sontag
...is Wayne Koestenbaum, so sayeth Bidoun magazine. What magazine? BIDOUN. It's amazing. Check it out.
And a snippet of what you'll find vis-a-vis our boy Wayne, as interviewed by Bruce Hainley:
BH: I'd like to begin this sitting on a bench at the intersection of poetry and politics. The title of your most recent book, Best-Selling Jewish Porn Films, recalls an early essay of yours, which when first published was, I seem to remember, called 'The Aryan Boy Who Pissed on My Father's Head.' I'm interested in the way your writing continuously pulls toward porn while retaining all its stern, Sontagian glamour and purpose. Where do you situate the porn-poem, or poem-porn, given the precedents of Shelley's 'Poets are the unacknowledged legislators of the world'?WK: I'm ready to talk politics and poetry and everything else under the sun. I got splinters on my butt-cheeks from sitting so long on this bench. And then the splinters got infected. I was worried I'd have to amputate flesh gobbets. But then the Valium kicked in, with its little-studied antibiotic properties. So I'm raring to go, ass in gear. The porn-poem: to write a poem is pornographic, in the senses of wasteful, useless, awful, ignored, debased, hurdy-gurdy, repetitive, regressive, navel-gazing, ass-licking, time-killing, boring, ludicrous, transcendent, dilated. I've been reading mischevious L-A-N-G-U-A-G-E practitioner Charles Bernstein lately (he's against National Poetry Month, thinks it's bad for poetry). Also Slovenian writer Tomaz Salamun, also Austrian pathbreaker Ingeborg Bachmann. I'm feeling entranced, once again, by the possibilities of language that ignores the supervisor. It's my regular May/June fever, the high of rediscovering poetry's rankness, naughtiness. And, for me, these days, naughtiness exists in being minimal. Some of the most exciting pieces at the MoMA, New York, on a recent visit were by Walter De Maria and Ellsworth Kelly, nice old-fashioned staunch minimalists. Looking at them, I think I "got"-perhaps for the first time-what a thoroughly anal pleasure, like gin, minimalism can be, so spiked with content in its refusals and excisions, its "Why bother?" So "up there," as Andy would say. Like a good old-fashioned hit of poppers. Like Warhol's goodbye to art. Like rambunctious poet Ed Smith. Or Sturtevant. The porn-poem is there, where Smith meets Sturtevant. Poetry is politics on poppers?