SALINGER CORPSE

12 min.

1 Bulgarian Themed Cafe

1 doz. Poets

1 pkg. Catcher in the Rye

Assemble poets in a poorly lit back room with Bulgarian pop songs playing at the edge of hearing on a television set, preheat oven to 325º. Cut Catcher in the Rye into ½” strips. Each poet takes one strip at random and edits it into a line of poetry. Combine all ingredients in a bowl and stir vigorously. Format and punctuate to taste.

Here is Salinger's corpse, in more legible form:

She was lousy
with dough
very dixieland and whorehouse

I thought of
her going in a store
and nobody
knowing she was a prostitute
that depressed me

I could see my mother
asking a million
dopy questions
about as kindhearted
as a goddamn wolf

it was pretty late and all
she lived at
the stanford arms
on broadway

I really don’t
understand sex
making up these sex
rules for myself

and then I break them
what’s the matter
whuddaya want
my voice shaking like hell

takin’ the five
you owe me
and I certainly didn’t feel like
getting my brains beat out.

These words aren't mine, so I invite anyone to write their own Salinger corpse from this source material. Here are a few lines I put together. Every word belongs to Salinger; I added nothing:

HOLDEN

All of the sudden
this lady
sat down next to me

we went to see
some movie
I know you’re supposed to
feel pretty sexy

when someone pulls
their dress
over their head
but I didn’t

she did it so
sudden and all.

. . .

STANFORD ARMS

I thought of
my mother
asking a million questions

about the
stanford arms
very dixieland and whorehouse
that depressed me

making up these
rules for myself and then
I break them
shaking like hell

it was pretty late
and I certainly
didn’t feel like going to
another hotel.

. . .

WOLF

I was a lousy wolf
my voice shaking like hell
making up these dopy
rules for myself

knowing she was a prostitute
a million kindhearted
questions
I didn’t feel like asking

the thought of
my brains getting beat out

it was pretty late and
she lived at a whorehouse
I really don’t
understand what depressed me.

. . .

STANFORD

She was shaking
like hell
and nobody
thought of asking

what’s the matter
with that
kindhearted
dixieland prostitute

asking a million dopy
questions
and getting my brains beat out
on broadway

I certainly didn’t want
her lousy
whorehouse sex
and you owe me stanford.