Dead Philip Whalen Interviews Me, and I Interview Him.

Philip, let's sixty-nine.

Okay.



DEAD PHILIP WHALEN INTERVIEWS ME....

What is your mood?

Random.

What radical change are you contemplating?

Either 1) embracing a religion or 2) becoming obsessed with an online virtual world role-playing game involving elves and giants and dragons

Is there really a difference?

No. And you look like Arthur C. Clarke.

I'm doing that deliberately now. Because of what you said. What's a flower made out of?

Flower stuff.

Do you model your attempts to act human by studying the way A.I. entities like A.L.I.C.E. talk online?

You're good, Philip. Damn good.

Thank you. Who owns the dead?

Everybody. And credit card companies.

Who owns the living?

Fear. And credit card companies.

Should I feel bad that I never saw Ghostbusters when I was alive?

Yes. I pity you.

Do you know what the dead call poetry?

No.

We call it dirty soap. Do you understand?

I'm not stupid, Philip.

Do you find dead gay poets sexually appealing?

Extremely.

Am I hot?

Extremely.

What is the hottest thing about me?

Your kimono.

Thank you very much. I was hoping to hear my fellatio-easygrip ears. Is thinking an altered state?

Yes.

Why are the newly dead talking about peanut butter?

Salmonella.

Oh, thanks for clarifying. Do you want me to make my head look like Salvador Dali's meat and two veg?

Yes. Please do. (Laughs at the ugliness of the spectacle.) Wow. That bad?

Apparently. Last question, "Do you realize I can smell blood on your breath from three days ago?

I'm sorry. I drink blood. It's part of my identity kit. I'm not proud of it.

The Orbit pomegranate gum just mixes with it and makes you spell like a Jack Spicer poem. It's nasty.

I call it Old Spice. Lose the claws, kitten. Let me prop your pillow.

My turn now.


What's the best thing about being a dead poet?

The hours.


What's your favorite flower?

Lobelia. Because it's a mandala. Aurally and visually.


Who do you hate to run into in the afterlife?

Ronny Raygun. And Meister Eckhart.


How has your view of poetry changed since you died?

I didn't realize before that it was an escalator.

I had thought of it more as an elevator.


Choose one: death or translation?

Funny. The NEXT bus on MTV.


Is Babar an evil Colonialist?

Oh, he's a tool. Sugarcoated divinity rots the monkey tooth.


What were you thinking about when you died?

My toenail. I kid you not. I was thinking it hurt and I turned to tell Mother...

Is dying difficult?

The first day of kindergarten is hard. Dying is like getting to hold the eraser for the first time in class one day. It's nice. Except for the pain part. That Hearsts like a motherfucker.

To what should a poem aspire?

Wakefulness. And an ability to step around a living person.

That makes sense. Your poems are artful dodgers. What do the dead talk about most?

Oh this and that. Karmic refinancing. I'm joking! How funny it all looks over here. The illusion of how slow things seem over here. How odd that it's all already done really if you stand in a certain place. Done as the dinosaur disco. Dinosaur booty-calls. I saw Percy Shelley standing once for seventy-eight years, mesmerized by dinosaurs. He was just watching them and could not speak. I handed him an ice cream cone.

That's pretty fucked up. Is the heart of life good? Is John Mayer right?

When I was alive, I said anybody with a schwanz like that is right. I don't care if he's a Luddite or a Trotskyite or a Baelzebubbite. Just wait patiently like a schnauzer.

Thank you, Philip, for that bit of satori. I remember you saying "Someday I'll never learn." I think that's a good place not to end.

To end. Make it a split infinitive. Give it a spline. A spine. Or something. I won't have that Beckett talk around me. No mice in my language. I have a vacuum cleaner and I know how to use it!

Whatevuh, Philip.