DeWitt Brinson: Take a word for a form of genitalia and write a brief history of it as if it were apart of a royal family.

Dylan Krieger: If ‘cunny’ were royalty she’d be rock ‘n’ roll royalty. None of that inbred Grand Duchess shit. Or maybe she’s a pagan nature goddess, one with the earth because she comes from a long line of terms for ‘rabbit hole.’ She’s happy with the rabbits coming in and out of her. But she resents, like her step-sister ‘sheath,’ being named for an empty space defined by what fills it, so she kills off all the undressed peasants filling her land and replaces them with retractable pillars of trance-inducing dildo fog.

DB: What do you do when you have trouble with writing?

Dylan Krieger: Lately I’ve developed a very specific solution to this problem. To wit: I watch YouTube videos (usually about some niche conspiracy theory or another) with the auto-generated closed captions on. The most inventive or nonsensical of the resulting phrases make their way into my poem, but the connective tissue I still supply myself.

DB: Think of a happy childhood memory. What is one of your favorite poems and where were you when you first read it?

Dylan Krieger: One of my favorite poems is still Plath’s “Daddy,” echoes of whose rhymey cheekiness can certainly be heard in my own work. I was homeschooled all the way through high school, so I’m sure I first read it at my parents’ kitchen table, probably around 9th grade. The irony is that, despite its simple children’s-book rhymes, the poem depicts a decidedly unhappy childhood, and I think that’s what attracted me. I’ve always adored the creeptastic chemical reaction between a poem’s music and its underlying mythos


DB: Take a deep breath. Now scream while writing until you run out of scream.


What are some of the ways you’ve imagined yourself dying?

Dylan Krieger: I’m always either drowning or in a car accident. My car is normally the only place I feel free to scream (except for just now), so I spend a disproportionate amount of time there. Add to that the overall frequency of fatal car accidents in the US, and chances are…

DB: Did you have any imaginary friends? If so, who? If not, why weren’t you more popular in your imagination?

Dylan Krieger: All my friends are imaginary. My imagination is the milieu in which I am most popular, for sure. But since I base a lot of my creative output on real-life input (see q. 2), all of my imaginary friends are basically subversive caricatures of people I actually know. For example, there’s this coked-out version of my mom I sometimes like to ask grown-up gatekeeper questions like how many exemptions I can claim on my taxes.

DB: How does the way you think of yourself differ from how you want other people to think of you??

Dylan Krieger: I fear I’m rather scatterbrained and live by no clear moral code. But as long as other people don’t judge, I’m alright with them finding out. (Trouble is, they usually do.)

DB: What are the differences and similarities between good and bad poems?

Dylan Krieger: I often joke that the only difference between a good and bad poem is its unapologeticness, also known as its don’t-give-a-fuck-ness. Little secret: I used to be an angsty punk kid, and I still put a high premium on art that’s loud, brash, and in-your-face rather than “pretty.” I also just get bored really easily, so I favor the punchy, the raunchy, the violent, and the depraved. Of course I’m well aware there’s lots of good poetry that doesn’t fit that description, but it tends to put me to sleep before I can reflect much on its deeper merits.

DB: What’s the last thing you argued about? Please describe it as if it were an argument between two kittens.

Dylan Krieger: Napping arrangements. Basically Vince & I were some scruffy tabbies who had just gotten attacked by this big ugly bulldog called Cyclobenzaprine, and we both wanted to sleep in this one nook of the Cat Palace but we couldn’t both fit. Luckily we were too zonked to clash claws, but later I guilted him for not caring about my happiness enough to back down sooner.


DB: Take a minute or two to recall some great sex you’ve had. Now describe your writing.

Dylan Krieger: Conveniently, I’m unable to describe my writing without thinking of great sex. Ha. But seriously: poetry is highly musical for me, and hence highly sensual, physical, carnal. There was a time when I wrote a lot of homophonic translation, but even my best attempts at “pure” sound poetry were no more fulfilling than a really hot one-night-stand. Now, when I challenge myself to infuse the same dense sound play with some near-coherent meaning, the result is much closer to those third-date consummation butterflies everybody’s always cocooning for.

Dylan W. Krieger just graduated with an MFA in poetry from Louisiana State University, where she also served as a writing instructor and co-directed the annual Delta Mouth Literary Festival two years in a row. Her cats and warm jackets, however, still reside in the Catholic stronghold of South Bend, Indiana, where she was born, baptized thrice, and graduated summa cum laude from the University of Notre Dame. Her first full-length collection, Giving Godhead, was selected by Danielle Pafunda to receive LSU’s Robert Penn Warren award for best poetry thesis. Poems from its pages can be found in several online publications, including Juked, Small Po[r]tions, Deluge, So and So, Crab Fat, and Smoking Glue Gun.



interviewed by the tender, young, virile writer

DeWitt Brinson