Shrubberies (for Joe Pulver)

For Joe Pulver

I’ve seen the man eat shrubberies,
Pulling one,
Then another from a pill bottle,
Pop them into his hoary maw,
Some kind of anti-Lorax,
Masticating, molar-grinding,
Felling tiny trees.
“You know that’s less effective,”
I say, understanding a thing
About pain management.
“Combustion is key.” He grins,
Flecks of green revealed
Inbetwixt expatriate teeth.
“Cest n’est pas une pipe,”
He murmurs. I suggest a beercan,
Crushed & punched, a lighter,
Hot knives. He laughs,
Drops a tiny Christmas tree
Into my palm, closes
My fingers around it.
And what do I do?
I eat the damned thing.
And I dream…

{Frank Sinatra, “Some Enchanted Evening”; Charles Mingus, “The Clown”; Thelonious Monk Quartet, “Monk’s Dream”}


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