Some things seem to belong to another age. Some things seem to belong to an age that perhaps never really existed, when simplicity and nobility walked hand in hand in the childhood of humankind. Alexander the Poet, by contrast, exists in a more specific other age: 1983. From what I'm reading here, Alexander shaves his chest hair in the shape of a heart, dons leather trousers and doffs his shirt, and recites his original, suggestive poetry to a soundtrack of whale song, at "open mic nights... in the NJ/NYC area." I'm in a mean post-New Year mood, so this is what you get.
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The Day I Spanked My Monkey
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