This is a terrific title, all your titles
should be this good—like a playground
with twirly and tunnel slides,
and a bathroom nearby to boot!
And all your poems should be as good
as this first one, which not only stood out
like a tilt-a-whirl on a flat bed broken down
along I-5, but reminded us of the words
we hate, like any compound adjective
and scrunch. We liked very much the one
with the Brain Gelatin Mold. Also the one
where Bly loses his luggage along with his smiling-
Buddha shtick at the Dodge. However, we didn’t
get interested till gingivitis and, overall, we stopped
reading when we realized—by the third line—
you weren’t even trying to reach us at all but instead
were yammering on to a nephew, son, sister, blah, blah, blah.
In other words, you weren’t a finalist, runner-up, semi-finalist,
22nd or even 55th in line, but you were definitely
one of the 67 entrants! That, a little ketchup,
marmalade, vinegar, a few shakes of salt,
and a pinch of dried mustard will sure make a good
marinade for baby backs, but you thoroughly, definitely,
unredeemingly, did not in any way, shape,
or razzle dazzle popsicle, come within
dozens of Mr. Natural paces from winning
our coveted prize.
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