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Putting the Bite into Cowboy Poetry
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© Paul Zarzyski. All rights reserved. These words may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.
PUTTING THE BITE INTO COWBOY POETRY
In February, 2002, I was a guest speaker at the annual American Academy of Restorative Dentistry Conference during a luncheon held in the Gold Coast Room of The Drake Hotel in Chicago. I know what you’re thinking: how in the hell does a cowboy poet land a gig like that! The answer, in a word, is Elko. Most everything gloriously unique and challenging in my so-called performance career has, as its wellspring, The National Cowboy Poetry Gathering in Elko, Nevada. As good fortune would have it, Dr. John Martin—a resident Elko dentist and aficionado of, as well as volunteer for, The Gathering—had caught wind of his future appointment as President of the A.A.R.D. and had long before made up his mind to bring a cowboy poet to Chicago, if ever he found himself with a say in the annual banquet’s entertainment bookings. Considering that John had likely listened to over a hundred poets present their work since the first Gathering in 1985, I deemed it an honor-and-a-half of zenith esteem that Doc Martin plucked me from such a talented herd. On the other hand, I was as skittish as a call girl in church—high mass, front pew. I mean, we’re talking a ballroom full of folks who spend their lives stuffing mouths full of metal gizmos, gauze, and rubber-gloved fingers, thus silencing the spoken-word, incarcerating it behind the epiglottis for hours at a time; these are folks who have likely seen more poetry recited via the tear ducts than they’ve heard via the vocal
chords! However, I had written a duet of tooth poems—the eyeteeth of my anatomical repertoire, so to speak—both of which could be deep-rooted in preambular narrative, 30 minutes worth if need be. With that saving-grace gameplan in mind, I choreographed a six-pack of non-odontological poems around my brace of toothed focuses, took my seat behind the Dr. Paul Zarzyski place card/placard at the dignitary table on the dais, and presented my 30-minute program to over 300 dentists from around the globe, I’m guessing, seeing as a couple of the more raucous audience members wore kilts. Can’t recall if I got a standing, or sitting, ovation, but the response was enthusiastic and I do remember my good western friends, John Martin, his wife, Mary Ellen, and their son, Brad, beaming with pride.
John and Mary Ellen fly to Chicago today, February 21, 2008, for the annual bash. I enjoyed a hearty visit with them three weeks ago in Elko at the 24th National Cowboy Poetry Gathering. We always reminisce about our grand time together in Chi-town. Moreover, John was tickled to hear that I was working on a third tooth-bearing piece, this one titled Smart-Mouth and dedicated, in part, to him. I beamed the finished version his way earlier this week just in time, I found out, for him to pack it along to Chicago. I began the poem last November, after my personal dentist, Dr. George Olsen, in Missoula, Montana, informed me that I needed a crown on—surprise, SURPRISE!—my last remaining
wisdom tooth. I thought they’d all been yanked decades back. I made a trio of 330 mile round trips from Great Falls to Mizoo, where I lived for 14 years in the ‘70s and ‘80s and first signed-on with my pal George as his patient for life—whether my life or his, yet to be determined. I’m a big fan of George’s chairside spirit, his top-shelf expertise and quality care, and George is an advocate of my poetry, so much so that he once considered a post-appointment performance in his break room legal tender enough to cover my bill (see poem below); so much so, that he allowed me to read an early draft of Smart-Mouth from the chair while he and his assistant honed the permanent crown to a perfect fit. I’m guessing these poetic episodes might be firsts—or maybe one-‘n’-only occurrences!—in the history of dentistry. I doubt even Doc Holliday his gunslinger self ever experienced such Wild Bill Shakespearean literati-lariati encounters. On November 26, 2007, right after that porcelain crown was cemented-in for good, I drank whiskey and ate a steak with friends of 35 years, Ripley Hugo and Gary Thompson, poets both extraordinaire. When I told them about reading the green-broke poem while in the chair, Gary proclaimed Horse (he calls me Horse for reasons we’ve never discussed?), you could write a poem about anything. Though I’m still not entirely certain that he meant it as a compliment, I believe he’s absolutely spot-on.
Therefore, I give you this Zarzyski triptych with teeth—molars, incisors, bicuspids, canines, wisdom, you name it—not a one of them false:
[INSTANT REPLAY]
[THE DAY MY DENTIST, GEORGE OLSEN, WAS CROWNED HERO TO POETS ACROSS THE WHOLE COWPOKE COSMOS]
[SMART-MOUTH: Mandibular Prognathism*]
