These are the greatest poems of the Early 21st Century as determined by a consensus of the author’s alter egos. The most obscure fictional critics who have appeared in the pages of the Great American Novel have, in their machinations, also lent tacit-ephemeral, imaginary praise to this magnificent tome of verse. Alice says strat-tea-tackfully, every poem must have a pie thrown at it to lend it color and flavor. Comb through these pages, and grow, or glow — whichever comes first. But for the benefit of mankind and for the ultimate salvation of narcissists everywhere, I feel compelled to reveal a secret: I have received an official communication from the League of Benevolent Galaxies. I am shocked to learn that I have been named the Poet Laureate of the Primitive Planets. Secretary-General Chytchalrorix informs me that there is no stipend, but the paper certificate, made from the pulp of their long extinct keypapx tree is like hardy laurels.
