Well, it’s been another fallow week. What can I say? Well, how about this oldie—a baldfaced imitation of the inimitable Russell Edson. Reading it in my three-ring binder from 1975, I recognize . . . well, this past week:
A Short History of Existential Medicine
The corpse was having an enema.
Of course, this won’t do any good, said the doctor.
Why not? cried the corpse.
My good man, you are already dead, explained the doctor.
Isn’t there a pill I could take for my condition? shouted the corpse.
Nothing would help, the doctor replied.
Then give me nothing! shrieked the corpse.
So the doctor gave him nothing.
Why not? thought the doctor with a shrug. It couldn’t hurt.
Some poets advocate imitation as a way of learning the art. This forces me to doubt the value of that approach.