Poetry is a manifestation of the spirit as it triangulates itself through the desires and limitations of meat; meditative inklings of immortality, and the play in the manipulation of aestheticized materials. It forgets about itself as code making, has the supreme confidence of handling elemental fuels. The word then is not only fit referent but also magical embodiment of the thing, the word takes its flesh from the World. Transubstantiation. The names of the dead are not to be trifled with. Forgiveness is asked for. And power. And self. We have arrived at the primitive.

Before we became obligated only to our minds, we were obligated to the world, its bodied conception and celebration and morning. Our poems are what the gods couldn’t make without going through us. We were answering back, not making codes, not manipulating literary devices, but offering thanks and accusation, mimicries of fundamental mysteries, the simplicities of urges that are always with us in the language of the creature, experience, weather. Our poetry is our haunting and adventure.

Another excerpt from Dean Young’s The Art of Recklessness.

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