THE PHLEBOTOMIST

Adrian Korpel

Art: health.state.mn.us

See this guy here lying on my couch? Looks peaceful, doesn't he? He came in around ten to give blood for his prostate operation.He's in his sixties, like most of them, all swagger with a scared little boy inside. Look at him now, in his stone-washed jeans and his purple shirt. Pathetic, isn't it, at his age? He's a professor you know. You should have been here when he came in. 

   "My name's Aubrey Stone," he says, "you   can call me Aubrey." 

He lies down on the couch and winks at me. 

   "Well, let's get started," he says," Do your worst and suck me dry." 

Great line, I think, really original. I ask him to roll up his sleeves, and notice that his veins look really poor. I take my syringe and stick the needle into the best one. Nothing. So I poke around a bit: Nothing. He has turned away his face, like they all do, but I see him wince. 

  "Does it hurt?," I say. 

  "Yes," he says, "you're hurting me." 

I decide to stick his hand instead, and this time I'm in luck, the syringe fills up nicely. I take 5 cc of blood, label it and send it to the lab. Then I measure his blood pressure, and find it's 145 over 102. 

   "It's a bit high," I say, "something must be making you nervous." 

   " Yes," he says, "you are." 

Blaming me again, I think. I give him a copy of Better Homes and Gardens, and tell him to look at the pictures to calm down. 

   "Those pictures may be too exciting," he says, "don't you have a Ranger Rick?" 

Smart Alec, I think, just wait till you see the big needle. When his count comes back from the lab, it's 42, so I can go ahead. I take his blood pressure again, and it's gone down to 140 over 90. 

   "That's better," I say. 

  "I'm not surprised," he says, "that magazine you gave me is full of pictures of flowers. It wouldn't excite a rabbit." 

He pauses a moment to think, like those professors do . 

   "Maybe I'm wrong," he says, "maybe rabbits eat flowers." 

I look at him, but he's serious. He must drive his wife crazy with that way of talking. 

   "Well, are you ready for the big one?," I say. 

   "Sure," he says in a kind of pinched voice. 

I put the elastic strap around his arm and take out the big needle. That's when he makes his mistake: he looks at the needle and faints -- 

So there we are. I suppose I'll better get a doctor. Look at him though, all peaceful in his stone-washed jeans. I bet you he's dreaming. Probably about rabbits eating flowers.

SEDONA

Adrian Korpel 

So we’re sitting on Cathedral Rock, waiting for the Andromedans to take us to their galaxy, and it’s cold and sleeting, totally not the red-rock Sedona of the travel brochures, and I say to Feather Angelheart, where are those people? 

She just looks at me through that misty angel cloud of her hair and smiles.

Look, I say, I’m not complaining, really, you’re an attractive, spiritual woman, and I can sometimes see your aura shining through the chakras of your body where the Ch’i flows in and out, but nobody has shown up yet, and I’m wet and hungry. 

Trust the Vortex, she says, and hands me an oatmeal power bar with pine nuts. 

Don’t misunderstand me, I say, I’m grateful you fixed my inner child, and Eagle Feather Clearing with you was a lot of fun, and I loved the Iconic Footbaths and the Full Moon Ritual we did together, but I really came here to be taken to Andromeda. 

They’ll come, she says, just wait until the Medicine Wheel has made a full turn. 

You know, I say, I’m beginning to feel guilty. I told my wife I’d be here to study the Supai formation and the Coconino layer, and I haven’t touched a rock yet other than this cold slab of wet sand stone we’re sitting on. 

Your secret is safe with me, she says. 

I respect your psychic regression, she says.

And we did have fun, didn’t we, she says, touching my face. 

Yes, we did, I say, holding her hand and thinking it over –- 

Let’s go down and do Animal Whisperings again, I say. 

OTHELLO LITE

Adrian Korpel

art:Allposters.com 

Okay people, let's get started, we have a lot to do. First, thank you for coming early; I know how difficult that is. We've all got our regular jobs, we're tired, and nobody pays us for this; we're not professional actors. So, again, thanks for being here on time. 

   Now this is the situation: two months from now we're doing Othello, and we haven't even read the script yet. So let me give you a synopsis. Othello, a Moor and a Venetian general, is married to Desdemona, the daughter of a Senator. Iago, one of his officers, has been passed over for promotion in favor of Cassio and is hell bent on revenge. He makes Othello believe that his wife is having an affair with Cassio. A lot of complicated stuff happens, and in the end Othello kills Desdemona. In fact, he smothers her with a pillow. Then he finds out the truth, is sorry, and kills himself. 

   As you'll notice, this is pretty heavy stuff, and I think we have to lighten it up a little. Let me tell you why I think that. Half a year ago we did Hamlet, and from a dramatic point of view it was a disaster. We all know that. Art Johnson, who is no longer with us, turned Hamlet into a stand-op comedian. At the soliloquy people started to giggle already and by the time Art came to "Alas poor Yorrick ...," they were rolling in the aisles. 

   I realize that Art wasn't the best actor in the world; in fact, with all due respect, he was pretty lousy. But that's not the point. The point is that people laughed; we got more laughs than when we did 'Blithe Spirit'. So I've been thinking, 'why not do it again with Othello?' But this time, let's go all out, make it into a real comedy. 

   Now, how do we do this? Until the final death scene, things shouldn't be too difficult, I figure. True, Iago is a nasty, chilling character, but we can tone him down a bit, make him more into a buffoon, sort of. Maybe dress him in baggy pants or something. As for Othello, we make him stutter, for example. An enraged, jealous stutterer is always good for a laugh. The real difficulty, as I see it, is the death scene when Desdemona is smothered with a pillow. Offhand, there's not much humor in that, so we've got change it. 

   Here's what I have in mind. Othello approaches Desdemona with the pillow, and the audience expects the worst. People are hiding their faces in their hands. But then comes he surprise: Othello starts a pillow fight, and he and his wife have a merry romp on the bed, feathers flying and everything. End of performance. Well what do you all say? Is that a great play or what?

AT TARGET 
Adrian Korpel 

 When I enter the coffee shop at Target, a chorus line of fat, happy bagels and sinuous pretzels welcomes me. I choose a bagel studded with sesame seeds like a diamond-encrusted ring, order a double cappuccino, sit down, and look up at the commercial spectacle above me.

 From the store’s ceiling, gridded with fluorescent lights, posters hang down like banners for the Good Life, the Life you have a Right to, the life guaranteed by Mastercard. The poster closest to me shows a deeply contented pharmacist, smiling broadly while holding up a bottle of cough syrup. Close by hangs a paper housewife in a pink, subtly swelling tee shirt, also smiling and carrying a half-gallon milk bottle in each hand. She is using them as semaphore signs to signal the pharmacist, her paramour. They spell out my love, my love, my adorable apothecary, drop your white coat and run to me, drugged by desire. 

 But she is not the only one yearning for the apothecary. Another woman, much farther away than the tee-shirted signer, is running toward him along the ceiling. She is a lawyer in full stride, arms swinging. Her gray business dress is Simple yet Elegant, Sober yet Attractive, Prim yet Alluring. She knows that Great Design Doesn’t Have To Cost A Lot, as she tells me in three-inch bold letters beneath her feet. Will she reach the pharmacist in time before the semaphore siren has lured him to her grotto? It’s problematic, there are choices involved, arrows that point to other caves in the store: Jewelry, Cosmetics, Health, Beauty, Lingerie, Men, Women, Maternity. 

 I sip my coffee, bite into my bagel, and watch the drama unfold high above me in the cork-tiled heavens. There is nobody else around, there is only me and the ineffable universe of banners and bagels, pretzels and coffee, the sufficient metaphysics of my desire.

HANSEL AND GRETEL

Adrian Korpel
Digital art: Bob Grigsby


Hansel had wanted a magic wand for Christmas and Gretel a laser gun, but what their parents gave them was a dump truck for Hansel and two Barbie dolls for Gretel. So they decided to run away. 
 Running away was easy enough. They lived at the edge of a forest, and the only thing they had to do was to pack up and go. But Hans was worried they would never find their way back, and he suggested scattering breadcrumbs along their path.
 "Why would you ever want to come back?" Gretel said. "There is nothing for us here. And why bread crumbs? The birds would eat them all. Use your brains, boy! I think we should just go." 
 And so it was decided. They walked all day through the forest. When they were hungry they ate hickory nuts which Gretel cracked open with her Swiss Army knife, and to quench their thirst they drank from the creek that ran beside their path. And even though they had left their parents, they were very happy all day. 
 But night was a different matter. Gradually the sky darkened above the tall trees, and the forest filled with black hollows. Owls started to hoot, and they heard the rustle of small animals in the dead leaves. Hansel got very frightened and began to weep bitterly. But Gretel cheered him up saying, "Wait a little, Hansel, until the moon comes up. Then we'll be able to see again. Buck up, little camper!" 
 Hansel stopped crying, but said he was tired, so Gretel made him sit down, while they waited for the moon to rise. When it was light enough to see again, they continued their journey, and after a while they came to a clearing in the forest. In the middle of the clearing stood a small cottage It had a red, tiled roof and aluminum siding that gleamed silvery in the pale moonlight. Black shutters flanked the windows, and a green door was set between them. 
 The children went up to the door and Gretel knocked on it three times. From inside the house they heard a gravelly voice saying, "The door is open," and when they went in, they saw an old witch with a big wooden spoon in one hand and a butterfly net in the other, ready to pounce on them. 
 Hansel started to cry again, but Gretel said to the witch, "Are you sure you want to do that? I mean, did you really think this through?" 
 When the old crone hesitated, Gretel whipped out her pocket knife and stabbed her in the leg. The witch cried out, "You little ...," shrank down to doll size and expired. 
 Gretel said, "Hansel, the old witch is dead. See if you can find the kitchen. We need a large skillet, extra virgin olive oil, four eggs, mushrooms, and a medium sized onion."
Breakfast had never tasted so good, although Gretel had never cooked a witch omelet before.

GREEN GRASS

Adrian Korpel
(dedicated to Spring and April, poetry month.)

Sitting quietly, doing nothing: 

Spring comes 

and the grass greens itself. 

                                    Zen saying 

The grass greens itself? 
Come again?

I mean, think of the trips to the garden store,
your earnest questions made light of by
the green-aproned store clerk 
who severely skewers your skills 
with his aerated-soil prattle 
and his erudite pH babbling. 

The people behind you in line are snickering 
as your appalling ignorance 
of all matters yard-like 
is revealed down to the tiny taproot
of your tree of knowledge.

I mean what do you really know about grass, 
rye grass, fescue, blue grass, zoysia, bentgrass 
how and what it likes, sour or sweet, 
salty or bitter, 
tangy or tacky, 
and how much water, 
how much blood meal, nitrates, phosphates, 
carbon, photons, molecules, Miracle-Grow. 

Hard work is ahead, 
spreading, hoeing, edging, raking, cutting, 
cursing the crabgrass, the clover, 
the thistles, the wormy apples on the lawn, 
the rabbit holes, the fallen branches,
the stalled lawnmower, 
the sweat of your brow, 
your grass-clogged throat, 
your pollen-plugged nose, 
your stinging sides,
your achy-breaky heart.

When Spring comes: 

Sit quietly, Do nothing.

SNAKE

Adrian Korpel

"Snake !" Leonard yelled, jumping back hurriedly from the spot where he'd heard the rattling. The trail was narrow, and he bumped hard into Lisa who was following close behind. 

 "Christ," he said, " that rattlesnake almost bit me. Look over there, under the leaves. See the diamond markings on its back?" 

 "There are no rattlesnakes in Canada," Lisa said, "and those spots on his back aren't diamonds, they're ovals. You're panicking again, darling."

 "What about the rattling then; you think I dreamed that up?" 

 "Of course you did. You have a great imagination, especially when you're scared." 

 "I tell you, it rattled." 

 "Okay, so it rattled. What does that prove? A lot of snakes move their tail in the dead leaves to imitate rattlers. It's called mimicry. You can look it up if you don't believe me." 

 "Dead leaves? In the middle of summer?" 

 "There must be leaves left from last fall. And if it wasn't leaves, then maybe it moved its tail in the grass."  

 "That would make a swishing sound, not a rattling sound." 

 "Not if the grasses are stiff; they'd rattle." 

 " You mean if they are reeds, I suppose. But we're on the edge of an escarpment, Lisa dear, hundreds of feet above the level of the lake. Where in God's name would we find reeds?" 

 "Where you heard the snake rattle, I'd imagine. Why don't you look?" 

 "Thank you very much; why don't you look?" 

 "Oh, all right, I will. It's a perfectly harmless snake and has probably left now anyway. I don't see it anymore." 

 But the snake hadn't left yet. It had been listening with interest to the conversation. It had been remembering old snake myths, legends about the time that the first woman had framed the first snake for making her steal the apple of knowledge. When God had taken away the first snake's feet for punishment. So that from then on snakes had crawled on their bellies through hot sand and cold mud. Which made it all right for everybody to despise them and beat them up. She's got knowledge all right, the snake thought, boy does she have knowledge. She has come a long way. How could she be so wrong about snakes? 

 And when Lisa stepped closer to find the reeds that rattled, he bit her.