Two% Butterscotch

A year that begins in November and ends with October. Although you cannot meditate on fun, this book is clearly about that, I mean, the first poem even says so right there. But who cares about fun? Well, we all do. OK. But as with all recipes, one must add one and a half cups of grief, a pinch of Howdy-Do and a tablespoon of What Gives? and you have got yourself some good ol' time Butterscotch, and thus you got yourself a tome of donuts marriages, Hollywood dogs fetching bones near swingsets, Jalapeños Muchos, Marilyn Monroe at lightspeed, the word 'scythe' for some reason and a vaguely randy Emily Dickinson - blame it on the booze, I think - and more, for this honey of a door stop is close to 700 pages and is not for the faint of eyeballs or weightlifting - in fact, it is the ideal book of verse to carry with you in sketchy neighborhoods and to have by your side when you buy your own island and you need a softcover pillow on which to dream and stuff just like that. When I buy my island, Lord knows, I am going to buy one of these just like this, for you. I ain't lyin'. And I hope you enjoy it.