Included in this collection is a small masterpiece called "301," a poem about a dart game, written as if Ben Jonson might have been the poet. The opening lines explode: "'Motherfucker, / Double in / Double fuckin' out' // Said trouble, two old / Snipers pitching darts / As if the board // Could still shoot back, / Vietnam a long way aft / But getting closer // With each shot and a draft . . ." The narrator is academic Ford, reader of Jonson, who can drink and dart with men like him who have out of necessity made the choices that suit them best: "Well maybe / Like the sniper said it's Hemingway / Or Bukowski or nothing, 'These are // My guys,' he said, 'these are / My guys,' claiming cock of the dunghill / Rights for the twentieth century . . ." The sniper's claim, and the assertions of this poem, go far beyond ordinary poetry.