I steal my title from a brilliant poem in Bill Knott's book Auto-Necrophilia (1971). It comes to mind often, but especially in light of recent dismaying events. Silly to hope that one might see any rebirth of equanimity on these appalling internets. No, equanimity is for chumps, and it will always be smacked down by the endless lust for content.
So I guess I have to disagree with Seth's characterization (in the comment box here yesterday) of his BAP posts as "much-lambasted." They may have been that, but I'm fairly certain that they also got more play (more celebration, essentially), than anything else he's done, which seems a bit sad. Lots of very surprising people linked to them on all sides of the aesthetic barricades. Reason: there's nothing more delicious than a festschrift of literary indignation and schadenfreude, however accurately targeted or off the mark, and everybody loves to pile on.
The thing that interested me the most, back in 2005, was that the day after I'd been awkwardly joined to the hip with Brigit Pegeen Kelly in Seth's ceremonial BAP cuss-out, he went on the record and said (in a post called "This Just In," after he'd taken the time to read it) that "Best American Poetry 2005 is actually pretty damn good, and might just be the best edition in the whole series."
Of course, this post got no play at all, and not a single poetry-lover thought it worthy of a morning-after link.