I had the pleasure of hearing Mr. Tottenham declaim a selection of these mordant little gems at a reading last week, and became an immediate fan for life. I don't think anyone else has ever written such a book; I don't see how anyone else could, would, or should, and the thing is... (pause for a long stare into space)... it's such a unique accomplishment: perfectly crafted poems about the impossibility of perfection - a creation that's about nothing but the inability to create anything - poems of rare distinction re: a wholly mundane matter. It's enough to make one's head spin, in a Zen sort of way. And whenever I read a few of these - too many at a time may promote weeping - I want to laugh like Keith Moon did: AH-HAHAHAHAHAHA!