The Unmead of Unpoetry

A shoe salesman and a bard walk into a bar. The bard, that’s me. Oh, wait a minute, is somebody writing this down? In that case:

It is I, Taliesin, unique in the universe as the walker between worlds, unto whom change never cometh, teller of tales and singer of songs.

Howzat? Well it’s the best you're gonna get, I’m off duty. Anyway I’m sitting in the Writers’ Saloon when this guy comes in a sits on the next barstool. Little skinny balding guy, jeans and a t-shirt, glasses, and the ugliest pair of orange shoes you ever saw. Real nervous like. Bartender comes up. I say “the usual,” and the little guy goes, “I’ll have what he’s having.”

“Nice shoes,” I say to the guy.

“Thanks. They’re the latest running shoe, i-pod ready and with GPS hookup. Say, I hope I don’t get into trouble for being in here. You see, I’m not really a writer. I’m a shoe salesman. But I thought maybe somebody here could help me.”

Before I can say anything the bartender comes back with the drinks. I take a swig of mine. Ah, good stuff. He does the same but it doesn’t agree with him. He’s choking, yelling, “Aaaagggh, the birds, the birds, the birds!”

I pry the drink out of his hands and try to settle him down. “Hey buddy, what’s the matter with you anyway?”

He starts breathing a little more normally and says, “What is this stuff?”

“The Mead of Poetry. I think maybe you’d better lay off, fella.” Gradually he settles down some. “So what is your problem anyway?”

“These birds keep following me around whenever I try to go out. I can’t do anything, can’t work, can’t take care of my family…”

“Oh yeah? Why don’t you show me.”

So we walk out on the terrace, and pretty soon this big black thing comes flying at us. Shiny, like it’s been in an oil spill or something. The bird parks itself on the picnic table and starts blathering:

“Pluto’s not a planet any more, so he gets fired from being lord of the underworld. He’s really mad, and he’s talking to Charon, who got demoted too. So they need somebody to replace him and they get Dick Cheney…” All the sudden the bird looks like it’s gonna cough up a hairball. It spits out this beanball cube, like you use to juggle with, all covered with turquoise cloth with bananas printed on it. Bird flies off, and the beanbag sorta like jumps into the guy’s hand. He starts tossing it up and down.

“Holy shit!” I yell. “What the hell was that?”

“That was one of them. They follow me around everywhere, spitting out stuff like that. Every time I get this beanbag and I don’t know how to get rid of it. My desk is already full of them. I’m a shoe salesman, I got a family to support. But how am I supposed to get any work done if I hafta juggle all the time?”

“ That’s terrible! Has this been going on long?”

“Only the last couple weeks. Started coming after a innocently wrote a couple short stories. I put them on this website called writing-dot-com.”

“Sounds dangerous.”

Just then another bird comes flying up, pheasant-shaped, all turquoise and magenta. It takes a seat and starts yakking:

“There’s a kindergarten class, see, and all the kids have names like Shakespeare characters. You know, Titania, Caliban, Ophelia, Flagstaff…”

I wince. “Falstaff.”

“Whatever. And then at storytime…” But before the bird can go on the little guy starts to throttle it with his free hand. It spits up another juggling cube, this one purple with little shineys all over it. Bird flies off, the thing goes into the guy’s hand. Now he’s pumping two of them up and down.

“Judas Priest on a Sidecar!” I say. “You’ve got to do something! Have you tried meditation?”

“I tried, but then there’s the orangutan, you see. I’ll close my eyes and listen to my breathing, but then this orangutan with purple skin shows up, wearing a red and orange dress you know, and starts giving me all kinds of weird looks.”

“Hmm. How about just getting really drunk?”

“Are you kidding? Then the birds come inside, and they start saying stuff that’s even dumber.”

“You’ve got to be kidding.”

Just then another bird flies up, a turkey this time. Only when this one lands it turns into this tall goth teenager, taller than me even, let alone the little guy. Dressed all in black, earring, boots.

Kid goes, “Hey dude, I just thought of some more shit to tell you about my childhood. It’s fuckin’ awesome!”

“Jake, how many times have I told you, I call you, you don’t come to me, remember?” the guy yells at the kid. Then he turns to me. “Sorry. My alter-ego.”

“Yeah, I can really see the resemblance.”

“Sorry, dude,” the kid says. “Anyhowz, I had this hairdresser that was a fuckin’ witch. And she wore even more black shit and cussed even more than me…”

I cover my ears. “Please, make it stop!”

The little guy starts hustling me back inside the bar. Yells to the kid, “Go away till I call you! And stay away from birds!” By the time he slams the door behind us he’s juggling three cubes. He asks me do I know what it is, and I have to break the bad news.

“This is serious, my friend. These are the Birds of Ill Story Ideas.”

“That doesn’t sound very poetic.”

“They’re not. They are the very bane of poetry, song and story. And the worst thing is, I’m sorry to say, they originate inside you. That’s why you’re allergic to the Mead of Poetry.”

“If they come from inside me, how come they’re birds?”

“Because that’s the only way they’ll fly.”

“You mean…”

“Yes. Their entire existence is predicated on a bad pun.”

He sits down and puts his face in his hands, looks like he’s about to cry. “What am I gonna do? I’m not even a writer, I’m a…”

“A shoe salesman, yes, I got that part. Just a minute.” I go back to the bar and buy a whole bottle of some stuff sitting on the top shelf. Blow the dust off the bottle and hand it to the guy. “Here.”

“Okay, what is it?”

“The Unmead of Unpoetry.”

“Isn’t that a double negative?”

“Don’t quibble. Just take it. And here, take this too.” I fish in my backpack and hand him a book.

“The 500 Hats of Bartholomew Cubbins?”

“By Dr. Seuss, yes. He’s a fellow who had a few crazy ideas too. Not nauseating like yours, but pretty damn strange nevertheless.”

“Did he get cured?”

“Cured? No, as near as I can tell he was completely out of his mind.”

“Oh. Great.”

Before he can start in again about the shoes and the family, I say,“Look, Friend, it’s time for you to go. I’m getting a bit nauseous myself watching you juggle.”

He sighs. “I guess.” We can both see birds outside, sitting on the wire waiting for him to come out. I hustle him to the door, but before I open it I think of something else.

“You know, my friend, sometimes real writers, as you call us, run out of ideas. Perhaps there may come a time…”

“When Dick Cheney as the Prince of Darkness sounds good? If that ever happens, please, take me out and shoot me.”

With that the bartender comes over and opens the door, and we shove the poor shmuck out. Everybody in the bar cheers.