We don't need your whataboutery and moral prevarication. It's time to
stand up and own your own culpability, complicity and . . . but I joke.
Sit thee down. Hoist up that unethical hamburger and deploy your face
into it. Some people are part of the solution and the rest of us find
the people who are part of the solution to be annoying. We are the
problem. We will not be moved. We will be moved if you shout at us, but
we're not going to like it. These poems whistle while Rome burns. They
whistle with words in a language plump with shoulds and oughts and
sorries and shouldn't'ves. They whistle Beethoven so badly the old man's
bones are transformed into a sustainable turbine. They only stop
whistling to consider whether cheap comic cynicism is the kind of wry
and arch whimsy no one needs, least of all this doomed world of human
apologists. The poems lift their chins with pride. The poems remain
unapologetic. No. I am mistaken. They are desperate, sickening, in their
apology.