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By Scott Stoller

Abramowitz proved that God did not exist
and that knowledge drove him mad.

It’s difficult work,
in which we tell the story of a lonely, yet privileged man,
a doctor and professor of medicine,
possessing the uncanny ability to
snatch defeat from the jaws of victory,
and make people disappear forever.

The envoy of ennui calls a meeting.
Meet me at the Blue Moon Saloon.
Discover the pleasures of understimulation,
as strange things happen at the nexus.

Get with the program.
I’ve seen the first moon landing live,
as it was actually being faked.
Space sex carries considerable complications—
A colossal decomposition of the senses.
Style with a splash.
Outer space trash is true freedom.

Robots have always been out to get us.
I hate my girlfriend.
I love cheese on toast.
Pate in a tube.
There’s something comforting about IKEA meatballs.
Soon I will be invincible.
I want to be with you,
but I’m stuck here in a zoo,
and my life’s a living hell.

Well, he may be mad,
but the good doctor does know
the first rule of real estate:
Location, location, location.

I think pink eye has made me a little bit delirious.
I’d like to see a doctor myself,
but that would cost money.

Blaine thinks I’m a stalker.
But I am not a psychopath—
I collect valuable rocks to sell on eBay.

(Actually, the preferred terminology is “sociopath”,
but we’ll let him slide
since English is not his native language.)

How is he in a relationship?
Any guidance from knowledgeable posters would be appreciated.
Please don’t just copy and paste personal opinions.
Doctor Wannabe is offline.

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Pastoral

By Scott Stoller

(after Samarov)

Nothing says winter like frozen barf in a snowbank.
It seemed like such a nice neighborhood
to have bad habits in.
He says he’s just coming off a three-day painkiller bender
and didn’t even know where he was this morning.

An earnest young man I picked up from The Continental
informs me that since I don’t appreciate ideology in art
that I’m completely worthless,

but every tentative step I take
towards participating in The Art World
makes me miss driving a cab.

Now I’m stuck behind a tow truck on North Elston Avenue
hell-bent on running other vehicles off the road.
Sometimes it’s like Death Race 2000 out here.

I just rescued four terrified yuppies from The Hideout.
They didn’t even go in—
Now they’re safely on their way to Rush & Division
to be with their own kind.

A girl gets in and says, “Let me tell you where I’m goin’…
I don’t know the address.
I’ve been drinking all day since two days ago.”

A man in a bowler and white scarf,
back lit below the Belmont overpass,
walks toward my cab
like a scene from “A Clockwork Orange”,

gets in and asks me how my novel’s going.
(Was it the beard or the corduroy jacket?)
He says next time I let people have sex in my cab
I should really make them use a condom.

It’s plastic surgery disasters
outside Charlie Trotter’s, as always.
What makes people think
that if a cab has passed a dozen others flagging,
their waving hands will magically make it stop?

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