Since so many writers were proud to be next to someone so
infamously wild and wildly infamous as Albert Goldbarth,
I thought I'd recruit another big reclusive figure in literature:


O, Superman, just off the cuff
I'd say you think that you're so tough
You speak with voice so mean and gruff
Me thinks I'll call your Earthling bluff
And see if you are made of stuff
That cannot stand to never-'nough
Poetry so bold it stands in sturdy buff
In witches' titty cold without a muff
I say he say we play that way because we like it rough



Interview

TW: Do you really call that poetry?

M: It's in lines, it rhymes, it rhythms, donut? Who could ask for anything more?

TW: Lines do not make the poetry.

M: What do you know, anyway, puny three-dimensional twerp. I come from the land of five dimensions, which is obviously superior since we have two more. Just imagine having to play tic-tac-toe or backgammon.