From a letter I sent Kathleen today:
He is our dear friend, isn’t he? If ever there was a poetry bar a la a piano bar, our friend Paul Lynde would be there, scotch in hand, pretending to manhandle the waitress with a smug grin, “Baby, I’m a poet and a lover .. . . I want you to pose nude for poems for me.”
I feel like making all sorts of legends about the midnight ride of Paul Lynde and his rules for martinis: one if by land, two if by sea, three if by air.
His name seems appropriate in all capital letters.
I am needing my pain medication and I am reluctant to take it for fear that my thoughts will become unLyndian and, instead, Lynchian.
His portrait makes me imagine that he was an unnamed passenger in Airport 1975; that during the most pivotal scene, he was behind Jerry Stiller, Conrad Janis, and Norman Fell–imagining Karen Black with her eyes closed and shirt off.
He is, indeed, the Buster Poindexter of poetry, and in line to become the next poet laureate of the United States.
***
Paul Lynde - Comedy Legend
For Kathleen and Eva who, without even knowing about the Richard Dawson spectacle I found yesterday, have been reliving the glory days of game shows all on their own three hours away from me.
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