the review on Corrington in Steppenwolf—the editor wrote me asking, “if I send you Corrington’s latest book, you mind reviewing it?” a free book is a free book. hell, no, I don’t mind, I told him, send it on in. I thought it might be something along the lines of his last book, The Anatomy of Love & Other Poems, and that I could say a few good things and then go to the racetrack or the mill or the rack or wherever. however, Lines to the South didn’t have it, and since I had stuck my neck out I had no other choice but than to chop Willie’s off. (Corrington’s). he hasn’t sent the Klan up yet so I guess I can put this rusty luger back under the hotwater bottle. Corrington had me worried when I met him and Miller Williams down there. the talk was all University-power talk, intrigue; talk about degrees and all that very drab shit. evidently it didn’t take long the for the talk to catch up with the poems. but if you think I just write adverse reviews like a vulture trying to strengthen his own flight with dead meat, see evidence number 9. I do a review entitled “The Corybant of Wit,” a look through at Irving Layton’s The Laughing Rooster. I am afraid that Irving L. writes very well. when I can read a man without lessening the electric charge within me, I know that man is a writer. to hell with iambic p.’s and spondees, I go on kilowatts!

I keep getting stuff in the mail from people about my review of Corrington. the odd thing being that they all agree with me, which worries me. there was some Roman ruler, I believe, who said: “The people applauded. I must have said something wrong.” I know what he meant. then too, it tickles their twats that after Corrington befriended me I jammed him. well, fuck it all. being a reviewer is too easy. I am afraid that if I reviewed my own stuff there would be blood all over the floor and walls. I know there would.