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