"Explaining John Ashbery’s poetry in a three paragraph blog post is a near impossible task."
Or just explaining it at all, really.
The fact that I even kind of understand the ensuing three paragraphs tells me I need to either go back to grad school or really start focusing on getting a mortgage. I hesitate to suggest there's fault or superiority in either high or low forms of entertainment; I like big-word talk as much as I like little-word talk; I think the real world offers pleasures every bit as physical and nuanced as the fake world generated by the human brain; but I won't hesitate to suggest that in the face of a largely not-in-my-favor tax day, there is no poetry that really stands as "an expression of our relationship with the world and our selves."
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