Fence poetry editor and rising star Michael Chang’s Almanac of Useless Talents is a must-read for poetry lovers and newbies alike. This is a useless Almanac. There’s no seasonal data, only poems good for leaving the club in haute couture with mid-level poets, for ambiguous sex, mouthy seductions, shoulder-turns of cold cock disrespect.
Part confessional, part experimental, and completely original, Chang is a poet read in classrooms and on phone screens with equal fervor. Each poem deftly deforms self into outrageous performance. This poetry snaps and twists so fast you’ll miss things: the intricate formal craft, the bitchy wordplay. A dopamine rush delving into desire’s throbbing networks of flesh and circuit, identity, relationships, Aznness, queerdom, and more that would arouse Ashbery envy, Chang’s playful style is edgy, surprising, and delightful. In Chang’s world, sentiment is décor: come face the amusing ever-ache of our desires or go ahead and try to outrun them.
How many poets do you feel are truly honest? I ask because I found this collection of poetry to be refreshingly forthright.
I put these secrets into skin / fry them till they are golden brown / drizzle plum sauce on them / sweet & savory / that is how they want me to write / instead / I write about timothée chalamet
Did I love every poem, every cultural reference? No. Michael Chang has done something brave and banal with these poems and I love them for it.
Kai also picked out this collection and this foiled my conceptualization of Blake and Whitman and the white poet's iron grip on nature metaphors in a very 'Pleasure Activism' way. There is much to be gained from pop culture as its own ecosystem.
Also, as an Ocean Vuong enthusiast, it was fun to hear how adamant the desire for distance from his literary influence was throughout the collection. And understood! Michael Chang understood queerness as a form of other worldliness that my friend Ocean Vuong is much less invested in capturing or exploring.
Ocean seeks to escape or envelop. Chang knows they will entertain and entice. They are appetizing like an English menu that assumes its English audience is too stupid for true translation. Happy enough to clap and chew through 'Kung Pow Chicken' and 'Sweet & Spicy', needing not a layer more of context or cholesterol.
After reading this collection, I found myself wanting to write Michael Chang-type poems, and I found it impossible. Such a uniquely singular brutally honest voice in these poems. Cocky and lively and energized and blunt. Nothing is off limits. Everything feels so good it hurts, or rather, everything hurts so bad it feels good.