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The One in Which I Punch Ocean Vuong
in the Face

I punched Ocean Vuong in the face.
It wasn’t some light ladyboy slap either.
It was Iron Mike finishing off Ricardo Spain with a left hook
at the 36-second mark. We’re in Amherst. It’s
a pastoral scene. There are toads talking by the river.
There’s a downy woodpecker. The surrounding hilltowns
have convened at the town square
to argue the benefits of no-till vegetable gardens
and to determine if belladonna really dilates the vagina.
When I punched Ocean Vuong in the face
he was telling me about his green couch and his love of lemonade,
then he called himself ‘the poet of possibilities’
and I knew he cribbed that line because we’re in Tate Country.
The moment right before I punched Ocean Vuong in the face,
I fondly remembered the two girls in Gloucester
who referred to Amherst as Slamherst. They were pounding
Pimm’s Cup on Good Harbor Beach at 10 am
and by noon were puking demurely in the dunes. In the dream
where I punched Ocean Vuong in the face there are many interruptions.
For starters, Emily Dickinson keeps batting her big black eyelashes.
They remind me of flies. She says, You’re only mad at Ocean
because he’s a successful poet. Besides, it’s very fashionable right now
to punch Ocean Vuong in the face. Look at this critique
from The London Review of Books:

‘Vuong’s language is not poetic but ridiculous, sententious, blinded
by self-love and pirouetting over a chasm.’

and this one from The Irish Times:

‘He [Ocean] is often an incompetent writer of prose
and his plots are sentimental mush.’

because we’re in Amherst, which is home to many writers
past and present, the town even sponsoring a ‘literary walk’ for the more
literary-minded tourist, it isn’t surprising
that before I punched Ocean Vuong in the face
we ran into Robert Frost. What is surprising is that Robert
is talking to some guy outside the Tractor Supply store
and the guy is nodding his head and Robert is saying to the guy,
Yes, I was a dog in my previous life. A very good dog, a good family dog.
Being a Buddhist Poet this fascinates Ocean Vuong
and he’s lapping it up and if I wasn’t already planning
on punching him in the face then his smug disrespect for Bob Frost
would have sent me over the edge.

we may have been on the sidewalk outside of a Chinese
restaurant when I finally punched Ocean Vuong in the face
but I don’t think so because Ocean
doesn’t really like Chinese. He’s not racist or anything
but Crab Rangoons give him heartburn.
Once the word crab enters my mind all I can think about
is those two girls at Good Harbor Beach puking demurely in the dunes
and then… right before I punched Ocean Vuong in the face
I say, Hey Ocean, did you ever read
David Foster Wallace’s parody of the Hardy Boys?
It was in the Sabrina, the old student publication at Amherst:
‘The Sabrina Brothers in the Case of the Hanged Hamster.’
1982, I think. Vuong, being one of the youngest recipients
of the T.S. Eliot Prize, wasn’t alive in ’82
and for a guy who has an MFA, let’s be frank
he’s remarkably underread. When I punched Ocean Vuong
in the face he crumbled fast which is surprising because
I’m a buck 30 soaking wet and have never thrown a punch in my life.
Emily and Bob Frost had gone off somewhere by then. Matcha lattes,
maybe. Something pastoral. Green. I don’t know. I’m really not good
at ending poems.

ABOUT THE ARTIST

Damon Hubbs is the poetry editor at Blood+Honey and The Argyle Magazine. He’s the author of the full-length collection Venus at the Arms Fair (Alien Buddha Press, 2024). Recent publications include Expat Press, RESURRECTION Mag, RIC Journal, The Disappointed Housewife,Hobart, Apocalypse Confidential, Horror Sleaze Trash, and others. He lives in New England.