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In the opening years of the Twenty-First Century there was to be found among the fops and fools of the Starbucks coffee-houses one pudgy, well-fed paunch named Gary Witt, more lethargic than confused, and yet more confused than talented, who, unlike most of his boyhood friends who had received solid, pragmatic training at Northeastern A&M or Tri-County Diesel Academy, had found the sound of Mother English more fun to game with than her sense to labor over, and so rather than applying himself to the pains of scholarship, had learned the knack of versifying, and ground out quires of couplets after the fashion of the day, afroth with guns and gangstahs, aclang with jarring raps and bling, and string-taut with hoes and rakes and other such faux pas similes stretched to the snapping point. –Ebenezer Cooke, with apologies to John Barth
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delilah contrapunctal (12/10/2009 5:45:00 PM)
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Gary is, in my view, a brilliant poet....and a delightful human being, as well....a treasure among us, this man....
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K.C. Wassner (12/6/2009 5:19:00 AM)
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If in 15 years I'm as good a poet as you are, I will have mastered the art of writing poetry in less than 15 years.
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