Zilbermann• Show poetry

12/08/06
I've just been asked whether zilbermann is the man in the photo or the dog.

John the human does the typing, as discussed in the column http://allpoetry.com/column/show/2090317

As it indicates, Rory the terrier was rather youthful and naive last April, but eight months makes a big difference in a three-year-old doggy; he's now far more astute and has become somewhat interested in poetry and literature in general. However, they are not, he feels, among the most important things in life; those are now the same as before: hunting, eating people-food, and riding in the car.

However, I confess that I've sometimes been guilty of stealing his literary ideas. He's now lying on the floor just a few feet away but can't see what I'm typing; he's busy licking his private parts. Now he has closed his eyes. If he finds out that I haven't been giving him credit he will be pissed off and might piss on the carpet to get even. Let me therefore state for the record that my writings on Allpoetry should be viewed as a collaboration.

Older remarks:

I like to write rhymed metrical poetry but Dr. Strauss, my New York shrink, won't allow it because he considers it a symptom of incipient mania. When I recently wrote my poem about Ludmila he ordered me to take 7.5 mg of Zyprexa, but that makes me way too sleepy, so I'm only taking 6.25 mg. This anti-psychotic medication prevents me from thinking up rhymes; it is intended to prevent me from turning back into John the Psychopath. Maybe Dr. Strauss is afraid that I might detonate my Libyan Special, killing myself in a terrorist martyrdom operation and freeing Abdul the Jinn, who is imprisoned in a bottle inside the bomb. Abdul would then presumably fulfill the three wishes of Colonel Qaddafi, although the Colonel never intended me to have this bomb, the extra-special Libyan Special; it was given to me by mistake back in 1980 or thereabouts. Well, it's a long story. You will have to read my memoirs, which I am now trying to write, if you want to know the details.

They tried to kill me on May 31; my car was hit by a tree. Probably due to Henry Kissinger conspiring with my pusher Dr. Strauss, who made me take all that Zyprexa so that the tree would find it easier to hit me. Henry has wanted to eliminate me for a long time but needs to make it look like an accident. It's been raining a lot so the tree had been drinking a lot of water. It said that it hadn't had any alcohol and I believe it. It couldn't get any because it doesn't have any ID. Most trees lack documents. Actually, I sort of feel sorry for it. They took me to the hospital but didn't bother to call a tree doctor. It was much worse hurt than me. On the other hand, my mother's car was totaled.

The tree seemed to think of the car as a living thing. It called the car an iron horse. I don't think cars are alive; I can't talk to them at all. Of course I have not let Dr. Strauss know that I talk to trees; if he knew he would use it as an excuse to give me a lot more nasty anti-psychotic drugs.