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Dale McLaughlin - Stillwater, Oklahoma (USA):

April 01, 2001:
This book inspired me to move heaven and earth; I got a
    hernia and I want a refund.
This book carried me beyond the gods and into the measured word.
This book is meant to be digested, as indicated by the peanut
    butter jam and honeyed marginalia on page 32.
This poetry book knocked my socks off, and what I want to
    say is, Goldbarth you're responsible for all this and I want my
    socks back.
This book fired me up so much I'm still selling marshmallows.

April 04, 2001:
I don't understand one word of this tedious tome even if I
    had a bitchin' commentary right in front of me not even a
    perky footnote to lead me on. Give me a break.
I wallowed in the wide gutter of this trash novel for days
    and days. What delicious swill!
This book pulled me in so far that I came out on
    the other side another text entirely. Irrevocably.
This book threw me into such paroxysms of laughter that after it
    was all over I couldn't find my lips anywhere to read with
    anymore.
This book is written by a demented logophile bent on flinging golden
    bullshit and avoiding the remainder bin like the plague.

April 09, 2001:
This book needs a text.
This book has so many typos and misprints it's having its own
    fire sale.
At the bottom of an ignominious sea of words, the intrepid, air-starved
    reader bumped into the iron hulk of a massive subtext not worth
    salvaging or ever bringing up again in polite conversation.
This gradus slammed me up against a writer's block the size of
    a castle.
This book deals with the eternal mysteries of life, the exigencies of
    love, and the inevitability of death. It invites me to take an
    inventory of my moral, intellectual, spiritual and professional life, to consider the
    folly of my feckless ways, to mend my derelictions, to strive for
    improvement, to reach for perfection, to extirpate my fatal flaws once and
    for all. You go, little book.

April 26, 2001:
Placing her stiletto heels against the back of the book, the code
    warned the text that she would break its spine if it didn't
    obey her.
Laced with saucy epigrams, draped with a diaphanous preface and adorned with
    tempting chapter headings and elegantly refined paragraphs, this book invites the reader
    to enter the sweet declivities of the text.
Hunched in a dark corner, he fixed the object of his desire
    with an implacable gaze. Then with the remorseless patience of the true
    scholar, he pulled apart the text until nothing was left, not even
    the remembered echo of a possibly imagined resonance.
Only a thin tissue of lies designed to entrap the innocent reader
    unaccustomed to such allurements covers this book. Mon semblable, it worked.
This book is destined to occupy the farthest reaches of my bookshelf.

April 28, 2001:
The April 14 book has been banned from the Goldbarth library. The
    offensive words include: dance, reluctance, apparatus, transgressions, lonely, night, sold, and Canada.
Chapters One and Two describe her resistance and his professionally-developed pecs.
In Chapter Three his disquisition explodes.
Chapter Four reveals the critical moment and subjects us to copious, pitiful
    weeping.
And Chapter Five, the final one, speaks of an indomitable spirit, free
    enterprise, and Canada.
Hip hooray for Albert Goldbarth
who gave us a virtual go-cart
of free library cards
and poems by the yard
let's thank him from the depths of our heart.

April 29, 2001:
Suddenly Narrabelle spotted Criticus coming toward her. She looked down just in
    time to catch her plot line unraveling.
Noticing the lack of authority, several of the texts began to pick
    fights at random. Within minutes, dozens of paragraphs collapsed, Chapter 7 went
    up in flames and all pretense of linearity was summarily discarded. A
    chaotic pile of discrete, inarticulate, significant moments littered the floor. The post
    modern blues set in and everyone went home to watch Xena.
This book was outed as a commentary years ago.
The power struggles in this book littered the grove with pillaged footnotes,
    gutted commentary and pedantic putrefaction.
The rotting frigate of this book finally capsized and sank under its
    own weight. Innocent students, forced to board it for years, clapped and
    cheered as it disappeared under the canonical flotsam.

April 30, 2001:
For Boller, Rob and Selby
who slogged through reams of poetry
to post all our verses
for better or worses
forever grateful we'll all be.