Your poetry, my son, manages the balance
between irreverent and irrelevant
better than any poetry I can recall off the top.
I mean, it’s rock solid one moment (when
you compare today’s mild rain to your mom)
and then it slips into some inside jesting
the way one squid slips into another squid’s ink.
It’s as though you’re already the best
so there’s no sense in besting anyone else
or even in stopping the onslaught of words
just to wonder. Ponder. Wend your way
back on-topic. Your poetry, my son, does all
this and in the space of only a few hundred pages.
It is dandy, irrepressible—a poetics for the ages.
Unbeatable if all but unreadable.
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