Well, this is just pathetic. Turns out my collected literary output is (currently) in as shabby, incomplete and disorganized a state as my advertising portfolio. All-time favorites are either missing bits, or missing altogether; I have no idea where half of what I thought worth saving ended up; the bits I do have, I have only the vaguest idea when or why they were composed. It's all probably in a trunk somewhere, feeding mice. Best thing, really, for the work of a guy who takes such poor care of his lyrical children.

Anyway.

Most of this is even more Juvenile (literally and, I suppose, literarily) than the last batch. Puerile, even. (I love that word.) But here it is anyway -- well, some of it. You'll find a lot of the self-consciously "rigorous" technical gimcrackery I used to admire above all else. And the usual horrific spelling errors, I imagine. Whatever. Judge for yourself, Pilgrim.

The following half-dozen poems almost certainly represent a sequence, at least in terms of serial composition and subject matter. For what it's worth.

Well, that's enough commentary, pal.

WHY IS THIS NEXT POEM HERE?: I have no idea. I don't particularly like it. O.K., fine, I hate it. But I do love Strohm, and you gotta admit that the epigraph is cool.

Hey this is MY website...I do what I like. Go make your own website.

DEPARTMENT OF THIRD-RATE PHILIP LARKIN: SEE BELOW. O.K., O.K., I know it's silly. But you were 19 once, too, buddy.