His conviction that his sense of proper punctuation far exceeded his peers was dubious enough but the fact that it was the only basis for his certainty that he was among the greatest writers of his day was just wrong no matter how fast he claimed to have wrote those - they're not prose nor poetry nor narrative nor expositive and it looks as if he was just writing down the things his speech pathologist had him repeat to overcome the stigma of his speech impediment. But still, bearing out the old adage that the poet's real work of art is his life , he spent his days in curious repetitions of altogether odd, though no less prosaic acts, be they: experimentation with his lifelong belief that one could stop a sneeze by forcefully rubbing one's eyeball; or pursuit of proof of his suspicion that the most erogenous part of a body is not among the popular choices, nor the brain as has been posited by more booky types than himself, but rather just behind the ear right about where a Labrador might happily receive your solicitations; or fleeing from suggestions that he floss more; or in invariably aborted attempts to breathe underwater by allowing water passage through his throat. But in the end, his mark was indelibly stamped upon the world, as his written repetitions were hailed by many as the ignominous end of communication and the beginning of a world where those afflicted with stutters and the like needn't fear anything but pillage by the hordes which stalked the ruins of our once great townships and shopping centers making sounds of their own choosing fueled by their now-inexpressible rage.