Phil [Philip Whalen]—my nextdoor neighbor and friend—mostly makes poetry out of local deprecations—usually wired to explode in his own face—little detonations. A born executioner of the petty but irremediable self. [Severance Pay contains] 29 poems by my count: most quite short, the final "Birthday Poem"—17 pp.—out of the 51 of text.

American Chaplinesque: the poems deceptively easy; i.e., they work with more care and economy than immediately registers. And they live with a remarkable easy immediacy. References are close to home—some would say private and I cannot tell since I live too close to the man—but the particulars are clear and always given. (p. 151)

The poems are each and all given their date of ascension. And the dying implicit in the meaninglessness of any occasion tinges each and all.

Phil is the comedian who always cries at his own jokes. (p. 152)

Unmuffled...