"Dear Abby:," "Diner," and "Haiku and Sources"

Dear Abby:

I am a famous artist who discovered in my early thirties that
drinking a full glass of a secret mixture derived from boiling
a certain OTC pill with a [name withheld] OTC ointment
for 1 hour on a low flame gave me the dexterity, vision, and stamina
to paint murals in hundreds of villages across North America.
When asked in interviews for the source of my vision,
I spoke of my religion, my high school shop teacher, and my wife.
 
Now I am at the end of my career. I have made good money,
earned many awards, and I enjoy a rare respect afforded mural artists.
But I have lived a lie.
 
Let me be clear, my work is no less mine, but my sources are,
shall we say, misleading. My question is, should I reveal
the secret formula of my success? If I do, everyone will be able
to paint murals as well as or better than I. Your opinion?
 
Artist Guilty of What?
[name withheld]

Diner

One summer my dad bought and operated a diner outside 
the Metro Hospital in Queens. Because a lot of his customers 
were coming from procedures that required fasting, he offered 
a half-priced breakfast called “the Fastbreaker”. It was very popular,
probably because he refused to demand proof of procedure. 
He felt it was demeaning.
 
It didn’t take long for the Fastbreaker to become a hit.  
After all, it was the same two-eggs-any-style found 
on the regular menu for half the price. When mother protested 
that we were losing money, dad explained that their normal markup 
was so high that even at half price they’re making a profit, 
and those coming now for discounted eggs will soon be ordering 
French toast, pancakes, and waffles not at half price. Well, 
the diner went bust by Christmas and Mom left Dad that May.

Haiku and Sources

Haiku
 
we watched the sunrise
only for metaphors
we were fucked from the start
 
 
Sources
 
I remember reading in either Sartre or Camus  or maybe Susan Suntag’s essay on one of them
that there’s a difference between an experiment and an experience.
 
I recall reading in a famous actor’s memoir that he knew he was a pro when on his mother’s
deathbed he studied his face reflected on a shiny medical gizmo so he could use that look on stage.
 
I wrote that haiku in California years ago when I was trying to understand
why I let M___ C___ go when I wanted her and she me.