The poems in Poem’s Poems—both those featuring Poem as their hero[?] and those that don’t—tend to cast the figural as literal and the literal as figural. If there is a model for Poem in these misadventures, it’s perhaps Frog from Arnold Lobel’s Frog and Toad picture books, but if Poem is Frog in this equation, I can’t, I confess, figure out what happened to Toad.
I’m tempted to echo Mark Twain’s warning to readers of Huck Finn: that those attempting to find meaning in these pieces will be shot, but both Poem and I are peaceable folk. And, too, it would seem but a coy ploy to declare the existence of meanings by denying their existence. And Poem, bless him, isn’t capable of either the Theory Two-Step or the MetaMeta Boogaloo that that would entail, and neither am I.
(Yet another fine cover from John Hunt. If you happen to pick up a copy, please be sure to check out the hula dancer on the dash, and the bumper stickers and license plate are, as well, worth a glance.)