Meeting Famous People

A friend of mine posted a blog entry some months back in which he tells about meeting Maury Povich in an elevator in New York City. My friend says to Maury Povich, "Hey, aren't you Maury Povich?" And Povich turns to him and says, "All day long."
Maury Povich is a putz.

My friend's story reminded me of a time many years ago when I met Martin Sheen. It was in a grocery store in Oakwood, Ohio, and it was late on a Sunday night. I don't remember what I was shopping for, but it must have been mighty important enough for me to go to a grocery store late on a Sunday. Anyway, I was walking down an aisle when I spotted Sheeny. He was reading a package of noodles, and he seemed totally engrossed in his shopping. I remember thinking "Holy crap! That's Martin Sheen!" I kept cool though, and I noticed that he had mostly expensive, pre-packaged meals scattered about his cart. That made sense—he was a rich guy and didn't want to cook. After watching him for a few minutes, I walked up to him, flexed my arm, and said, "Hey, aren't you Martin Sheen? You wanna' feel my muscle?"
Then he said, "Get the fuck away from me." So I left.
What a grouch.

The Food Issue

—Brave Leader
So the leader of the people perched high
on his lemon merengue pie—said
there is no more spectacle
nothing to witness here
please move along
and do not snap
the leaves that
hang down
low
near
the blueberry tarts



—Orderly Exit
The celery stalks inched down the aisles
they paused momentarily to
let the eggplant shuffle down the steps
Then they herded by the cabbage who
stared from the other side of the aisle as
they waited for the turnips to shuffle through the auditorium

They all filed out single-file across the
plaza filing single file under the
archway across the floor singly
out the door into the chapped night to
shmoozle and shnipple

Testing, Testing

—This Is a Test
This test must be simple—
Distracter A
must be plausible
Distracter B
must be friends with
Distracter C
Which will look like the
Key
And be no longer or shorter than all
Choices
Because the test
Must not be too easy or
Too difficult

But it is very difficult
to write with so many
Rules
and with ennui
making so much
Hopeless

The Tale of Count Schniffelwerfer and the Dark Red Wine

—Two Olives
I ordered a martini extra dry
Served by a metaphysician
the olive he told me was a
world that coughed a dreadful
cough
of despondency and platitudes

Then the gibbering tourists smelled
of cigarettes and black magic
their grotesque shadows
painted mountains of rum and spice

So I said, doc—
could you make it two olives

A Note About Surgery

To my patients who have solicited my professional services, from their homes in every state, city, town, and remote thicket within our great Union. And to all those dwelling in Europe, Mexico, South Asia, the Russian Steppes, and scattered islands of the Pacific Rim, I respectfully offer an explanation.

Look, when I said that I was a doctor, I meant that my intention was to heal and that maybe I was speaking figuratively—that I was being a "doctor" simply meant that I was acting as an agent of hope. It's not that I had any idea that so many would come to me with such serious ailments in need of medical help. After all, when I heard things like "thank you for seeing us, Dr. Culpepper . . . It's so good that I found someone to sew my arm back on, Dr. Culpepper . . . I'm so grateful that you can perform surgery on my kidney right here . . ." I felt important and my self confidence was boosted immeasurably. After some time, I felt that I really could perform surgery and remove organs with ease. I just didn't think that so many people would have so many complications, like the ones who died. It's unfortunate, but most of the time it was infection, not my lack of medical training that led to such suffering. But life is about learning from mistakes, is it not?

So I do apologize, and I suppose that what I did was a little misguided. Future medical treatment will be limited and all of you should know this.

Respectfully submitted

Autobiography

—Bad Timing
So I sat alone at night
by a table that cared nothing for me
Despair
was my houseguest

Where were you O Lord
when the bottle was empty
and the sign read—
Closed?

Curious Phrases

Several weeks ago, I was reading a friend's blog. He mentioned a review that he had read in which the reviewer talked about "old, failed poets." This critique seemed awfully mean-spirited. Can anyone really be a "failed" poet? If I recall right, the author was actually talking about economically successful poets who have failed spiritually or who had "sold out."
Nonsense. Hogwash.

Anyhow, I was inspired to write about old, failed poets, and the result shimmers below, revealing all of my cynical loveliness.

—The Bane of Poets
I once kicked an old, failed poet
He deserved it
Because he reached for the postcard
The postcard that read Howdy from Oklahoma!
It was my postcard, the bastard
I reached first
(actually, his was a reacharound and we know that reacharounds are
inappropriate)

So I kicked him in the ribs
And then in the ego
as he spilled to the floor
He’s probably at home now
Writing a poem or eating a sandwich

And now I’m thinking about Oklahoma
The land where you drink whiskey from a boot
And everyone’s fixin’ to do something
Something that involves dust and cowboy hats

But he learned his lesson, the bastard

Annie Hall

Woody Allen made some damn funny movies. He laced social observations and critiques with one-liners and other jokes inspired by guys like Groucho Marx. I remember one from the movie. Alvie (Allen) is giving a standup routine at a college and he says, "I was thrown out of N.Y.U. my freshman year for cheating on my metaphysics final, you know. I looked within the soul of the boy sitting next to me."

That's funny because it's unlikely that someone would take a metaphysics "exam," and, if you did, that's how you might cheat.

Subculture

No one actually says to himself, "You know, someday, I'll become a hillbilly." It just happens.
This image was captured in Tipp City, Ohio. The photograph is an approximate representation of the typical family one might find in a small western Ohio town. Please note the chicken perched upon the bed frame. This is a common sight in many small towns. People often wish to be close to their animals—even the ones they may later be "fixin' to take to market."

I'm a Hermit

I'm a hermit and I live in a cave. Not many people know this because not many people know who I am. I don't look like a hermit. I don't have long stringy hair or a bushy beard, and I'm not wearing ragged animal skins or sackcloth or anything like that. In fact, if you met me, you would not say to yourself, "Wow, who was that hermit guy?" You would say, "Wow, that was a fine chap with an understated elegance." Women would say, "Wow, he talked to me for five minutes and didn't once stare at my breasts. If he's married, his wife is exceptionally lucky."

But I see the same things everyday—same trees, same clouds, same hallucinations. Most hermits do. I don't really do much. I watch TV, make prank phone calls, and I look for dry places to sit, and sometimes I need to chase wild animals from my cave. I suppose that I do other things, too: I get up and pee in the middle of the night and then can't fall asleep again. I iron my socks and I sing falsetto. It's all routine really—I'm not that different. I'm just a hermit in a cave.

Snow Board

I found an old waterski in my garage, and I use it as a snowboard when I can. I know it's not the same as a snowboard, but I don't give a shit because I hate winter sports. So I took the board to a park where hills and trails become one. I hoped for some movement—some speed—after all, I had fun the last time I used it.
But it sucked. I went nowhere. I couldn't even move downhill.
That was some freaky snow. I felt cheated.
I hate winter sports anyway.

The next week Beth and I were walking through the same park. This time the snow was melting and it was sloshy fun, but treacherous footing kept me on guard. When we came to a big, icy hill, I easy-stepped it so that I wouldn't tumble my way to some serious fractures. Funny thing though. Beth says to me, "Just move like you're snowboarding." I said, "that would be good advice if I didn't suck at snowboarding."

Boots crunched
snow fingers ached
under the wrath of rope that was too short
The Snow was a mischievous pixie or maybe a surly retiree
Who knew that water could create such friction
I’m angry with the snow
it owes me one
probably more

Water friction
Frozen nostril
Snow crunch
Selfish sun
Succulent naptime
Fruit of lusty love

On Puppets

Puppets are strange aren't they? You saw puppets all the time as a child no doubt. They come in all shapes and sizes textures and colors. Most of all, puppets have such distinct attitudes and personalities. But lets face it, you sometimes get tired of their bullshit, don't you. They're just like anyone else, and you have limitations as expected. But is there more to puppets? More than we know now? Is there truth to puppets?

Is there a puppet god?
a puppet Sabbath?
have you seen their
Puppet tricks
Puppet laughter
Puppet bullshit
Puppet apathy

Dancing puppets
Cruel puppets
Talking puppets
Self-obsessed puppets
soup a la puppet
Puppet cream pie
Oh, Jiggle puppet jiggle

Modus Operandi

I know bloggers who post poems, gush over fermented beverages, and make daily observations. But I really have no "purpose" shall we say. What I seem to do is post to other blogs, so I thought that maybe I could discuss here my posts on other peoples' blogs. But that idea seems sort of silly, but I may on occassion talk about something I saw and reprise my observations for you, dear readers.
The following is a somewhat overdramatized beer review that I posted on a friend's site.

—Porter
I.
At first I tasted the birth of a civilization
—the hope of a quenched thirst
much like the one a stone-age traveler must have experienced
while viewing the glorious walls of Jericho.

II.
Next—
a winey perfume whispered to me
as though I were an honored guest at a Moroccan bazaar
But then—
across the great landscape of my palate surged
the screaming hordes of pagan invaders.
Dark and mysterious were the roasty waves
like the blood of sacrificed criminals.

III.
Towards the end of my swoon,
as though by divine creation,
a sweetness—
(was it sweet?)
Or was it spiced cocoa gently procured by noble savages
from a far away tropical paradise.
Drink it early;
drink it often!
The path to glory is clear! Leghumper for all!

Skulls and French Poets

Several months ago, my brother told me that he was going to France, and he asked me what I wanted him to bring back for me. I said that I wanted a skull from a dead French poet. He said that he would try, but I never got my skull. I did not explain why I wanted the skull, but I can relate part of the story here.

—On Promise
The Minotaur came to me and told me where to find
the skull of a dead French poet.
“The skull,” he said,
“would bring the promise of peace and renewed well-being
for our weary race.”

But that old trickster thinks I’m a fool.
He just wants the skull for himself
and will snatch it from my hands the moment I display the relic.
Why should I believe a man who has a magical bull’s head?