The adventures of the much-excluded Kent Johnson run like a crimson, I say a crimson, thread through the historie of the American poetry submerchant marine. The various conceptual and administrative corrals managed for the docile herd of avant-garde outcasts gets periodically needled and pinched by said KJ, in between his translation journeys to more netherly nether-lands. I think he does it for his own amusement, despite the tone of high dudgeon radiated amplified in all directions, by himself, me, & otters. They're still talkin' about Buffalo '99.

"How to be a poet", though, seems to elude most American poets. We remain the unheard-of herd. Or the too-much-heard-of herd. The herd of college coffeeshop chit-chat lizards.

They've taught computers to play chess, but this is a harder game by far. Duende-baby tends to mess up the channels.

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