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| photo by Linnaea Mallette © |
we had a bank of old New York Bell phone booths at my high school
they were the kind with folding doors
and enamel over metal rotary dials before
going the push button chromed out look
we last remember them as, perhaps ...
these were quick change mood artistry
a before the internet private room
womb to tomb luxury
a prescient portal tube
from which all
could possibly be, would be
heavily lubed
with meaning stripped
from filling up
with communication
and immediacy
the future
was not odd
nor even
to be
merely
plunge
art work
night clocks
baking and
simmer pots
what have you gots for me
i hear my selfish sentient speak to me
guttural crawl alley coal sludge red clay oil mixed in
the places outside reality
bits of bitten into
what, where why i hid
myself from myself
when memory fled
who you do call
when no one is listening
all depends on what operator
you connect with, dialed in
finger to the hole you go bottoming out with
what stops you from bleeding out
flooding life, what your heart feels
over topped with turning
ever turning towards morning
you hope
tea with Pandora
a conversation
with perception
with a friend
even if for just
a moment or two
a voice on the other side
any side away from where wear wears you thin enough
to see through
a voice on the other side
another Earth mother
saying "what city please"
comforting tone
you parse
the one second pause after
into a milliard infinities
all the places you can wire
what thoughts, words
can and do carry you
round the world
a sound transmission
a wave function
how you hear
how the wind
still smells of you
all the names
you gave yourself
too
EJR ©
"who do you call
ReplyDeletewhen no one is listening"
Good question -- excellent poem