These poems collected by the author shortly before his death resist the most benevolent intentions of even the kindest hearted critic. Devoid of any grace save that of a quickly predictable self-mockery, they are sentimental, repetitious, self-pitying, full of bad rhymes, old-fashioned syntax, anguished invocations to God that refuse to sound (even though they undoubtedly are) sincere. It is interesting that the noted author of Growing Up Absurd and countless other psychological and political books that helped shape the consciousness of the late '50's and early '60's should have had such a poor aesthetic sense, for apparently first and foremost Goodman thought of himself as a poet -- which he was only if you consider the works merely the chartings of his admirably honest unified life: ""All of a sudden I understand/ I am too old to love/adolescent boys/ and make a fool of myself."" In a world of Linda Lovelace sexual superstars it should reassure the average Joe that even the famous can be dragged around by their penis and made pathetic in their lust -- the hungry child who refuses to grow up even as he changes the world with his intellectual bravura. This is his true legacy: the grief-stricken father who tries to forgive a world in which his son could accidentally fall off a mountain, a man with a bum heart who knew his time was near and kept on going, a maverick thinker who could not understand the separation between the body and the mind -- how young men could reject the old man's body even where they admired his ideas.