Review of “Filtering Jameson Through My Liver” by Brian Builta

You needn't read the entire poem, but 
you'll like the hunger in the kitchen section
and later the love in the thin onion soup.
The constant screeching is not necessary
nor the fondling of the corn. Still, who
can complain about the plucky black cat
or vibrator batteries that never die? It's true
poems are not good sources of protein
and testicular fortitude is a must and 
goat yoga is finally falling out of favor,
but wind through trees is a bit worn.
Everything else, as the poem asserts, is
transcendent poverty. I like Anna,
her spunk as she says
Now that I'm a freshman I'm practically pregnant,
but could've done without the poet's
perpetual road rage. Ultimately,
the early innocent throes moving toward
death by winter risks sentimentality.
The poet should stick with juggling gigolos
and Fireball shots with St. Sebastian,
before target practice, of course.