Sam Dunski: Poet of the Gutter
Puletzer Prize-winning Poet Extraordinaire, two times; nominated for a Noble Prize
Official Website for Samuel H. Dunski where we strive to keep his memory and writings alive and available for his myriad fans and detractors.
[Note to all Pedants: All punctuation, capitalization and "mistakes" herein are fully intended, because Samuel H. Dunski is a cantankerous bastard and possesses a poetic license. Legal Notice]
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Samuel H. Dunski—considered by many itinerate intellectuals and loquacious degenerates to be the Supreme Allied Commander of the International Poetry Scene in the 21st century—was born into humble circumstances in Hora, Iowa, in 1950. His parents, Bartholomew and Esmeralda Dunski, moved him to Southern California when he was ten, where they settled into the sunny West Coast middle-class lifestyle. He began his illustrious writing career at public school, considered by his classmates as a recluse and iconoclastic troublemaker. Nonetheless, he was a leader among his fellow students, and excelled in such sports as backgammon, chess and fondling his female peers.
As he rose through the ranks of the everyday, average, run-of-the-mill, chained-to-the-streets, can't-write-shit-to-save-their-ass poets, his work began to shine beyond them. His radiant prose lifted him, like Prometheus, high above the clouds and lesser lights of intellectually-hidebound poet-wimps and wannabes. Dunski's novels and books of poetry were beginning to garner serious praise from the near-established arbiters of poetic taste, and the critics.
Waging the War of Words
He figuratively pummeled and smashed and
ground to little itsy bits the skulls of his fellow literary rivals with his
acute wit and unique, philosophical observations. Dunski turned that smelly,
stinking, heap of life which is our lives, our everyday trivia, into a
scintillating fairyland. His effect on contemporary poetry resembled a
blood-soaked, carnage-ridden car wreck on Interstate 405.
Fortune Smiles on the
Flush with success, he moved to Malibu to gorge upon his long-anticipated feast of high consumption. His cup did floweth over, spillith down upon the sandy ground, and oft ruined the Chinese carpets of the mansion he had leasethed—for which he did eventually loseth his substantial security deposit. He soon became disillusioned with the lowlifes of highlife in this sunny paradise and his poetry suffered an irreversible downturn. He could write nothing in these circumstances. Zip. Nada. Zilche. Desperate, he abandoned the Shangri-La of beach life for a return to his beloved city. Unfortunately, he was broke and homeless until rescued by his long lost girlfriend, Juanita Grabowski.
Twists and Turns along the
He is sorely missed by true poetry fans, as well as the many stunning, bitchy, head-strong women from all walks of life whom he had befriended, and with whom he had shared his bed and other satyristic, poetic enjoyments. There was even talk, at one time, of a statue to be erected in Dunski's honor in an LA city park—a site highly favored by a motley collection of indigenous tramps and winos. But the notion was abandoned when the erudite city council realized the money expended on such an enterprise would diminish the very coffers supporting their city-funded, fact-finding junkets to the Bahamas, Hawaii and Paris.
There once was Greatness in our Midst
And so, we stand in mute tribute, our mouths
shut, our eyes clamped, to that one, great light of literary and poetic
sensibility that chanced to grace this vast and vacuous, cultural no-man's
land—Los Angeles—for a brief while, and then was hailed no more: Samuel H.
Dunski, Poet Extraordinaire. Long may he wave over the city of perpetual smoke
(that is, we mean, the multi-hued smokes of many kinds). Big Sammy, we won’t
forget you. We have you forever. “Sam Dunski Lives.”
And now, a word from our sponsors (giving you a free sample, from the generosity of their inner hearts):
It just doesn’t come like a can of balls,
like a sack of wheat,
when you want it to;
it comes when it damn well pleases,
and none too soon;
it enters in the dead of night or
over the rooftops,
like santa or St. Germaine;
it comes when you’re sleeping or dreaming,
making love, when you’re
and running your game;
it rattles your chain and bends your mind to
the breaking; leaving nothing of value behind;
it will use you to its own ends and
you’ll wonder what happened; why you, of all
people were chosen to lead the parade of witches and
madmen and workers of potions;
but the darkness will gather around your shoulders like a
cold, clear fog
and spit in your eye;
while it comes when you’re being
a piece of shit to your
friends or neighbors and no one can sleep because
you’re howling at the moon.
And when it comes, you’d better shut the fuck up and
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