Bernstein's opening sonnet aptly sets the tone for this book: "I want no paradise only to be/ drenched in the downpour of words, fecund with tropicality." What the reader gets is not only a downpour but hail storms, soft flakes of snowy words and fine mists as well. And the tropical zone is exactly where this poetry reside -- a hot and colorful place where poetry grows wild. If you are looking for something typical, look no further, you might find a proverbial saying: "If I had a dime/ for every hour I've had/ peace of mind/ I'd still be a poor man." If you are looking for iambs gutted and filled with savory signifieds, take a glance at "Precisely and Moreover" (but who looks for that?)...:"I died in chance abandon, made the clearing/ tough to take, or went to meet a bleat of/ feigning belly crates..." (reader response? I died in these lines with their seeming randomness and made what is normally easy going poetry, a clearing out of these poetic acres tough to take -- difficult reading/writing... The dadaism of "a bleat of feigning belly crates" obstaclizes this particular plot. This poetry engages if you relax the ax a bit. As for this rating, it's merely a comment on the disdain of "the disdain of destination," i.e., what was it that coherced the spittle on the spam, that jacked the spam from my ram rod ideation, that got my ideation in a bunch, and the bunch in a a hissy kit of words. This book chills the pill.