thanks to Eileen Tabios for taking my critique of critique seriously. I sound a bit as if I want to remove aesthetics from the enjoyment of poetry, but I'm not so foolish as to make such a claim (not yet at least, but there's always tomorrow). Joan Houlihan, for instance, strikes me as mischief in the critical world because her criticisms are just exercises in ascerbic style. The game's rigged, she's looking to make merrie on those swarthy betes noires that she has discovered in the park where she plays with poetry. That sort of criticism is absolutely discountable, it can only be judged by jab count. Win the battle, lose the war. Perhaps I overvalue my enthusiasm, but I'd rather jump up and down about recent books by Spahr and Fitterman than bitch about those that snuff the candle. My stance has something to do with the feeling that as a critic, I'm a pancake short of a picnic. I don't aim for comprehensiveness in my reading, I just want to pop a wheelie. I can't save poetry, but I can share my pleasures in it. That seems like the best pro bono I can manage.