The folks at Michigan Quarterly Review know the answer. I’ve got a stack of books myself that bloody well deserve a sentence, so maybe I’ll try my hand at this. Let’s see….
The author appears to have fallen asleep at a wild party attended by scholars of Sumerian, Greek, and Japanese poetry, bi-coastal hipsters, refugees from various poetic movements sprawled upstairs and down in their tattered togas, revisionist historians swaying in wicker baskets, stand-up comics from Café Wha? singing backup for Don Rumsfeld as he belts out “Pirate Jenny,” some guy handing out business cards for Name-Droppers Anonymous … all of their brilliant chatter swirling down the drain of the author’s unconscious like blood and water in the shower scene from Psycho, only to flow out in these fever-dream poems that leave us breathless from laughter, nursing an astonishment hangover.