And another thing...

Well, after a whiff of mortality, some smelling salts, and the flutter of a sympathetic fan, I think I have started to recover from the universal excitement generated by my first posting. I hope that you have, too. My friend Bill had some very nice things to say about the magenta and rose color scheme I have employed here.

If I seem a little wistful this afternoon, I hope you will forgive me. I am trying to make up for lost time. You see, I have been trying to publish some of this stuff for years. And to suddenly realize what most people realized ten years ago—that you have the freedom to embarrass yourself in public without any help from others—is totally disorienting.

There is nothing so shattering to a person's personality—his sense of self— than a belated Epiphany. Everyone thinks himself a genius in his own little corner of the cosmos, and to discover otherwise is somewhat—er—unsettling. It is worse than showing up late for a party. It is more like showing up late to an orgy—when the beer is warm, the women are cold, and the only thing left to eat are cheese-doodles.

Which reminds me: I need to get some lunch...

While I am off eating, here is a poem involving the ghost of Harry Houdini—one of my childhood heroes. Harry, of course, did not believe in ghosts any more than you or I do, and he spent much of his later career debunking spiritualists, mentalists, and other frauds.

Therefore, I think the reader may take this item as a complete flight of fancy: the transcript of a conversation I once had with my soul through a Parker Brothers Planchette, or Ouija Board, when I couldn't find anyone willing to play Monopoly with me.

How strange the voices that we hear when we are alone!




The Escape Artist

Why don’t we take a tour of your ribcage?
Feel free to smoke. No spitting, though. It’s rude.
Now pick a person from the rack—an image
To titillate the senses. Something nude.

That’s your companion for Eternity.
A soul-mate, if you like. He never rots.
You’ve picked a postcard—excellent. Let’s see.
He looks like that Houdini—clad in locks

From head to toe. Will he escape in Time?
Reserve your seat for Harry’s greatest feat!
While we are waiting though, we ought to dine.
There must be something in the Snack Bar. Sweet:

I thought we had a box of Raisin Bran…
You do like Raisin Bran? You look distressed.
No, the box contains no Raisin Bran,
But please inhale whatever’s there with zest.

You’ll find it’s very hard to criticize
The brute who brings the breakfast—and his rose.
Tears have a tendency to fill his eyes
When you attack him. And he breaks your nose.

Which brings us back around to the front door:
They recently installed new mirrors—steel.
We had an “incident” on the top floor
When loneliness lost all its sex-appeal.

I’m not that nuts, I guess. I’m kind of glad
They took my glasses and bricked up the sky
Before these suicides became a fad.
I think it should be difficult to die.