Having read Dobyns' essays on poetry in Best Words, Best Order, I was curious to read his work. Three years later, I just got around to it. If you believe his aesthetic, that poems create themselves and put the conscious and unconscious in one room and let them duke it out, Dobyns is not your man. He speaks against "earnestness" and likes nothing more than a poem that uses humor to blunt seriousness and throw readers off kilter. At the same time, Dobyns believes a poem should be beholden to no one, that poetry cannot, must not, "play nice." Those two perspectives do not always meld well. It is tough to be sincerely hard-hitting without earnestness AND evoke a chuckle or two along the way. In one poem in this collection, "Artistic Matters," Dobyns means to locate a scary monster in each of us. "There is nothing he loves," he tells us, and blames the monster for murder and mayhem. Yet Dobyn's monster seems well under control--not just in Dobyn's witty and neatly even lines--but in the "artistic matters" that he wears like so many layers of silk. I've come to the conclusion that it may be unfair to judge Dobyns by his impossible and theoretical standards. The poems WERE nice--clever and gently revelatory--and that may be enough--but this collection left me wishing he weren't periodically compelled to trot phony monsters out.