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Identity Theft
by George Anderson
I first caught him
rummaging through my garbage bin
his head thrust inwards/ his feet dangling
he emerges clutching a fist full of rough drafts
of poems & stories & autobiographical notes
‘Just looking for some old newspapers’
he lies as he whisks up the street
The next day I get a call
from a Mr. Black from the local bank
he asks me to confirm my date of birth
Where’d you get my name?, I demand
The phone slamming down.
Another day or 2 passes & a letter is delivered
requesting $200 from a small publisher:
Dear Sir
How should I put it? —
the poems you sent were in the
new
modern genre
& rather daring —
certainly a pleasant change
from my orthodox poets who still
crank out iambic pentameter drollery
however, I only publish, how should I say, serious poets
especially those who are on a retainer of $200 per annum
for that you will be allowed consideration for our next series of chapbooks —
& you will also receive copies of past crap we can’t get rid of
send your cheque in my name
or to hasten publication
simply send me the cash
which saves me lots of hassle (& tax)
mind you, we are not a vanity publisher
nor do we promise fame or fortune —
but you need to act quickly
as we are in the process of preparing our next collection of chap books
Yours sincerely
BK
I toss the letter in the rubbish
I am pissed off!
I have standards
My art stands on its own 2 feet
I should no longer have to offer a bribe for its acceptance
nor beg the Arts Council for a handout
*
On Wednesday my credit union
confirms via a text message
that my loan for $200,000 has been approved
I explain to the manager,
‘You gotta be joking
I haven’t applied for a loan.
What’s it for anyway?’
*
Fifteen thousand perfectly hand sewn copies
of a poetry book called ‘Excrement’
arrive at Dymock’s bookstore on George Street
*
I receive a signed copy of a new book
of poetry in the mail
the poems are self reflexive but highly imaginative
& strangely familiar
they resonate in a simple but profound way
the blurb on the back reads…
‘the poignant etchings of stark personal landscapes against a recalcitrant voice beguiling an undiscovered audience’
*
One evening while waiting for Late Night Live
I casually flip open the book and read one of the poems:
Beerwigs
I examine again the list
of possible titles for short stories
written 8 years earlier & recently
found haphazardly
in a cook book in Vancouver:
1. A canoe full of moose meat
2. Beerwigs
3. The Great Vodka Massacre
4. The Bootlegger & the Professor
5. Puke-O-Gram
I decide to write a piece about beerwigs —
it has an unusual & perhaps catchy title
I have no idea how the poem will be constructed
how I will be able to infuse it with muscular imaginative language/
layered meanings
In the morning I awake as usual at 6 — a Google
search identifies 10,500 beerwig entries in .26 seconds
One important site provides a variety of beerwig definitions:
beerwig (noun) 1 the thinkers and drunkards of the halfling
race. They talk very quickly often clip or invent new words.
They often lapse into random association, known as ‘Chutter’
thus making their speech unintelligible. 2 similar in appearance
to the wormwood. It was often placed in alcoholic mixtures by
the beat writers of the 1950s in order to evoke wild and frenzied
dancing or love making. (verb) 1 Is thought to be an ancient ritual
performed by the Micmac First Nation of Nova Scotia in which a
colourful wig is put on the scalp of a drunken person who
has blacked out through the overconsumption of alcohol: ‘He was
beerwigged for his stupid behaviour.’
the poem which follows attempts to synthesize the use of the
various mediums alluded to above:
The Beerwig
He glanced up uninebriated from his glass
& a stream of words
fluttered from his halfling orifice
like the random flight of incorrigible angels:
‘The density of wooden porridge
the impossibility of writing blankly
the stud bucket seeping of stars
ripped upwards it all takes much hommos
after swimming with glittering denial
the polysyllabic poet floats in the woods
glued to the twig, red cordial diving endlessly in space
it takes much green cheese and sunburnt noses
alone he sat, his insides clashing clouds
playing on-line air hockey
opaque nothingness whispering half-time
buzzing oodles of constipated duck’
This is what it sounds like
When beerwigs fly
*
I am dumbfounded
it reads word for word
like a poem I had recently discarded
who would contemplate
publishing such stuff?
*
Excrement is an overwhelming success
The book has somehow hit a raw nerve with the public
I hear the bogus author one evening
reading out my work on national radio
mouthing my work
making it sound easy to be me
he explains in a broad Australian accent
how difficult it was growing up in Montreal
how the death of his mother
inspired him to write his first poem
‘Mom, Did You Leave a Will?’
yet it is not until he mentions that he is
presently working on a stage play about his life
that I froth at the mouth and call the cops
*
The police arrive at my flat
& remove 2 computers
& several dozen boxes of draft material
They issue a warrant for my arrest
To telescope the court proceedings —
I am finally released without conviction
The dumpster diver of this scam
simply vanished having deleted any references to himself
along with about $125 in royalties —
although his podcasts are still available for a fee
*
Postcript
Although Excrement made it on the best selling list
(it achieved this after 300 sales)
there are still about 14,000 copies of the book
in my garage
(if you would like to purchase one
please view my urgent plea on My Space
your copy will be personally autographed by me, of course)
On such a sad note
I guess this is not the best way
to end this story
but all this happened
exactly as I have attempted to describe it to you here
NO SHIT!
______________________________________
George Anderson was born in Montreal and presently lives north of Wollongong, New South Wales, Australia. He has had hundreds of publishing credits since 2002 but has been attempting to wean himself off writing poetry for the last two years. Kept writing poems about not writing poetry.
posted 04.21.08.
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