I'd like to read a second poem also about that most dangerous
of all subjects-- writing poems about writing poems.
This poem is also about a writer, not necessarily a poet,
and it's very different in tone from the first poem.
In a sense it's a poem about not being able to write.
And the figure in the poem is not
able to write primarily because his typewriter has
turned against him.
The poem also includes a number of references
to films, particularly horror films.
And I might add only that all the titles
and all the little capsule plot summaries are indeed authentic.
The poem is called "The Terrible Dream About Airlines."
I suppose it started with the terrible dream about airlines.
When I tried to write about it, the typewriter
chewed through the paper, edged away from me across the table,
and proceeded to issue terse, impertinent messages.
It was like the beginning of Attack Of The Mushroom People
when a strange, fungus-like growth spelled disaster.
Ludicrous, but true.
And no one paying attention until they
have to haul out the heavy artillery.
But what could I do if I couldn't write it down?
Having all these mouths to feed, not to mention my own.
What then would be the point of my suffering?
This is like invisible terror, I said to my wife.
When the doctor invents a serum that will cause invisibility
and then disappears.
Ever consider manual labor?
The typewriter remarked.
At night, I could hear it hammering away
inside its smart, gray case.
Even denied paper, it worked right through the roller
and kept on while the dream about the bus and the burning
dog plagued me and still plagues me.
Friends sympathized.
But when I said, listen to this one,
they were all 10 minutes late for their next appointments.
My wife lasted a little longer, slipping colorful biographies
of Gauguin onto the coffee table, and travel brochures,
train schedules, neat cardboard tubes filled with dimes.
Finally, she was gone.
The note said, when you learn how to take a hint,
call me at mother's.
[LAUGHTER]
How could I have explained that Gauguin was a special case?
But I never opened any of the letters.
I knew what they would say.
I knew this was getting near the end.
The day the movers came, I smiled pleasantly.
Don't try anything funny, they said.
We've got your number.
Even they wouldn't touch the typewriter.
That heap of silver spools and keys pulsing on the floor.
Alone, now, in my empty house.
I'm beginning to feel like the surgeon's fiancee in Brain
That Wouldn't Die.
My head floating in a jar in the cellar waiting for a body
to arrive.
And discovering too late--
three murders are all anyone is entitled
to before the sheriff pieces the facts together or the doctor
attempts one last desperate gamble.
But I'm prepared.
Even though the beginning baffles me,
even though the middle doesn't fit,
I know all the endings by heart.
[APPLAUSE]
Thank you.