"Brett Jenkins is not fit to be your Prom Queen of interrogative words. She is nowhere close to being the Drag Queen of prepositional phrases. She is, however, a soon to be ex-wife of this reviewer.
When I read the words she has written in poetic forms, I wonder aloud to myself and anyone else at the bus stop: “What kind of sandwich did the author eat while writing? And...what kind of bread was it on? Instinctively, I always answer: a chicken salad sandwich with walnuts, cranberries, and relish on a nine grain baguette. I usually find that the beverage of choice would be an ice cold whisky sour in the left hand and a vodka tonic in the right hand. I then tend to discover I am not at a bus stop at all but rather in a furniture store, farting on all the fine leather chairs.
What I am trying to get across to you here is the following: Brett's poems are very quick to give the reader a few moments to reflect on their own existence in the company of strangers but there are not nearly enough crotch shots or upskirt moments for my taste. As a matter of fact, I am generally appalled at the lack of toothless grins featured in your magazine. For shame! When will America learn that we aren't all as beautiful as Brett is when she wears her best pant suit and frolics around at the rest home on Tuesday afternoons at 4pm. We could learn much from this former Saltan of Western Indiana."
Writer, Cherry Pie Enthusiast, Tuxedo T-Shirt Guy