Michael McClure goes at the Godhead the way some men pound at a stuck door. Since the late Fifties, he's tried screaming curses, grunting meaninglessly in ""beast language,"" writing ""meat science essays""--and now he's giving Keatsian rhyme a shot in the cause of body-awareness and pan-everythingism. McClure may be our only genuine megaphone poet. ""YES! THERE IS BUT ONE/ POLITIC AND THAT/ IS BIOLOGY."" ""I/ AM/ A MAMMAL/ PATRIOT."" Still, with all his talk about the ""holistic"" and the ""flow of the biomass"" and ""the shattered substrate incorporating chop and moil,"" McClure is, as he ages, getting a little calmer; when his eyes aren't goggling at the biomass at a hundred rpm's, he can even write a fine, alert poem like ""By the Highway."" But he's no less brave than ever. Few contemporary poets so consistently skirt the hilarious. Or so often fall into it: ""We're otters swimming in the shadows of the now."" McClure is the kind of poet it would be great fun to read if you knew no English--all those capital letters and the ants-in-the-pants energy! For English speakers, though, subject to understanding, this Whole Me Catalogue is so much rapturous farina.