I never planned on being a poet--never intended to--never wanted to--it just happened.

Although I say I never intended to be a poet, I studied poetry in college. This was no more than a trick at the time. You get a lot of reading in College, but if you take a poetry course, how much can they make you read? If you are told to read four poems, big deal, that's about four pages. I can do that in ten minutes. The best thing was to take contemporary poetry courses. No one knew anything for sure about modern poetry.

I also used to take contemporary literature courses, on the same premise.

As I look back upon the T. S. Eliot and e. e. cummings poems I studied, I have to say I got my best education in their poetry in high school, where I was taught by Christian Brothers. I remember the brilliance of these poems, but no longer understand them.

Ezra Pound forever removed Eliot's clarity. Wallace Stevens, and other guys like him, were just inscrutable, though you have to applaud someone making a few bucks off "The Emperor of Ice Cream."

The twentieth century celebrated non-representational art. This spread to fiction, poetry and the lyrics of modern music. Such fashionable nonsense is a trend that, almost a decade in to the twenty-first century, has shown no sign of abating in music. The fad of movies, novels, and poems that you cannot understand is almost over. It was fun while it lasted, although it seems no more worthwhile than experimenting with marijuana.

I'm not criticizing here. I have no right to do that. Actually, as previously babbled about, you have to congratulate someone who can publish stuff like Finnegan's Wake.

I have discovered recently the poems of Billy Collins, an alumnus of my college, Holy Cross, who has proven, against all odds, that a Poet Laureate can be a fantastic poet. You can actually understand what Collins is saying! Though I haven't read as much of him, I have recently read Mark Halliday, and think he is excellent. Sure, I'm a fan of Allen Ginsberg and Dylan Thomas. Sylvia Plath is heavy, as well as many new poets, like Lyn Lifsun and B. Z. Nidich. I hope I've spelled their names right. Perhaps the editor can straighten this out.

I have to thank super poet Mary Panza, a very warm and humorous person, who encouraged a poet named John Blandly when he read his poems at Borders in the 1990's on Wolf Road in Colonie.

I gave road tests to many of the poems in this book at Borders, a bookstore I still am devoted to.

None of the poems in this book come with their introductions, the little soft shoe I liked to give in the hopes of entertaining the audience.

ABOUT THE POEMS

"End Punctuality Now" is a reaction against all those freaks obsessed with punctuality. Most people will arrive within five or ten minutes of an appointment. The people who show up much later, like a half an hour or an hour or two late--they are the psycho-maniacs. Don't mess with them.

"Action Junkies" says it all. I learned that compulsive gamblers don't really care about winning. They just like the action. That's a lot like me. I like the action, but still wonder about the meaning of life, and the purpose of life.

People are troubled by natural disasters that kill the good with the bad. Humanity wants justice. Mother Nature doesn't seem to look at things that way. What's that about? Is that a hard lesson in being careful? Seems like that to me.

I promised you health and safety.

Hopefully, there are a few poems here that come right out and tell you to be careful. That's my most basic message. Read the instructions, folks. Do a little investigation--maybe search the Internet, before embarking on crazy, insane missions. Take it from a guy who likes to wing it. I've taken the punches, and have the bruises to show for it.

"To Be A Husband" is a poem I'm a bit wary of. I'm afraid people might think it is controversial, or blasphemous. I'm not trying to take anyone's name in vain. I just think that once you stray too far from the Ten Commandments and the golden rule things get messed up. The fine print is the problem.

Still, one of the things I'm most convinced of is my own fallibility--being ignorant, and just plain wrong way too much. Maybe I should just shut my mouth.

Many of the poems are about writing, like "Compelling," "Typo City," "Punt That Muse," "Ode to an Open Mic," and "The Decision Not to Invade Earth."

You want poems about modern technology? They're here. Try "Fe-Mail," "Work Started ON Y3K Problem," and "My Mini-Landfill Website."

You like love poems? I won't point them out--you'll find them. I'm here to fix broken hearts.

There are many inconsequential poems, but if a publication published them, who am I to say?

Some, like "Against Violence," about exactly what the title says, no one has been fond enough about to publish. Maybe it's just ranting and raving, and a lousy poem, but I believe in it, so it's here.