Hugh Prather, Notes to Myself (Real People Press, 1970)
Ouch. This was an ugly experience. The worst part is, it didn't HAVE to be an ugly experience. Yet more evidence that, yes, it's all in the presentation.
Notes to Myself is a collection of observations and thoughts from Prather's journals. They range from the surprisingly insightful ("The principle seems to be: it is a fault if I am capable of it, a disease if I am not.") to the charmingly naïve ("What is the difference between `I want food' and `I want sex'? Consent.") and just about everywhere in between. And had they been presented as prose journal entries (in other words, as they were no doubt written), this could have been a small surprise, a bit of a self-help book that doesn't try to batter the reader over the head with stupid jargon.
Instead, however, it is presented as poetry, and in this presentation it becomes a marvel of offense. You know how magazine editors are constantly decrying submissions that are "prose chopped up into short lines?" Well, Notes to myself is the epitome of prose chopped up into short lines. It's literally prose chopped up into short lines. (If Prather's journal actually contains this stuff in poetic form, that makes it even more monstrous.) The material in here, while workable prose, violates every possible rule of poetry one can conceive. No thought at all went into the line breaks, the word choice, the image (what very little here is presented as image in the first place!), the diction, anything. It's obvious thought and reflection went into the material, but one of the main differences between poetry and prose is that the presentation of the material is far more important in poetry than it is in prose. In fact, the presentation is more important than the material itself, something Prather (or his editor, blame whichever you like) obviously didn't grasp.
In other words, the material gets three stars, the presentation gets zero (and would get negative stars if I gave such things out), leading to an average of * ½.