Interview
That was a pretty roundabout answer to what
I would have to say
was one of the more straightforward of my questions.
But to come back to this thing
you call your near-death experience.
In the accounts I’ve read, whose credibility,
or lack thereof,
we’ve already talked about—
that is, their lack thereof—
you say you saw the universe from the outside in, as,
you say, a dense web
of capillaries through which pulsed
corpuscles of light.
(A nice touch, those corpuscles.)
Guy wires, infinite in extension,
were holding down your will,
but—surprise! surprise!—you still had a wall
and a body, too.
How can I breathe, without air? you asked yourself.
(I’m wondering about that, too.)
You also say . . . well, you say a lot of things, don’t you. . . .
You say and say and say.
When the paramedics revive you,
you say, Okay,
so I’m not God. But neither is God.
To the literally thronging media in the hospital pressroom,
some of them famous themselves and so
not to be sneezed at,
with a relieved, grateful nation literally hanging
on your every word, you say,
I wish I could shimmy
like my sister Kate.
She shimmies like jelly
on a plate.
Well, I mean, really . . .
excuse me for living, but . . .
and it makes a difference, makes a world of difference . . .
Also, I happened to talk, while preparing
for this broadcast, to your ex, and she said,
and I quote,
Bastard. He could never get enough.
And that cameraman you slugged
outside the Royal Sheraton on your worldwide, and quite
lucrative
lecture tour? He’s
a family man and a friend of mine,
and a nicer guy you couldn’t hope to meet.
I would have to say
was one of the more straightforward of my questions.
But to come back to this thing
you call your near-death experience.
In the accounts I’ve read, whose credibility,
or lack thereof,
we’ve already talked about—
that is, their lack thereof—
you say you saw the universe from the outside in, as,
you say, a dense web
of capillaries through which pulsed
corpuscles of light.
(A nice touch, those corpuscles.)
Guy wires, infinite in extension,
were holding down your will,
but—surprise! surprise!—you still had a wall
and a body, too.
How can I breathe, without air? you asked yourself.
(I’m wondering about that, too.)
You also say . . . well, you say a lot of things, don’t you. . . .
You say and say and say.
When the paramedics revive you,
you say, Okay,
so I’m not God. But neither is God.
To the literally thronging media in the hospital pressroom,
some of them famous themselves and so
not to be sneezed at,
with a relieved, grateful nation literally hanging
on your every word, you say,
I wish I could shimmy
like my sister Kate.
She shimmies like jelly
on a plate.
Well, I mean, really . . .
excuse me for living, but . . .
and it makes a difference, makes a world of difference . . .
Also, I happened to talk, while preparing
for this broadcast, to your ex, and she said,
and I quote,
Bastard. He could never get enough.
And that cameraman you slugged
outside the Royal Sheraton on your worldwide, and quite
lucrative
lecture tour? He’s
a family man and a friend of mine,
and a nicer guy you couldn’t hope to meet.
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