Anyone writing about the NY Times puzzle gets a look from me, and I'm glad to have read this. The angry energy of your poetry feels like it's just dying to burst out of the words and lines in which it is contained. What a perfect metaphor the boxes of a crossword puzzle are. Please please please write more.
I like the iconoclasm of your poetry, smashing the twin pillars of Romanticism, God and nature. However, unlike your truly excellent 'Aristotle to Dr. Pepper, ' where the neon lights are a viable alternative to natural phenomena like moonlight, and speed and adrenaline are alternatives to the meditative love that the Romantics embraced, this poem was a little too nihilistic for me. There is no alternative presented at all to what you decry. The field of love has been covered, you say, with a nice play on the meaning of 'covered, ' but do you really believe it? That there is nothing left to write about other than the fact that there is nothing left to write about? You clearly have great talent, though, and I hope to see more.