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Spirit Dity Of No Fax Line Dial Tone Analysis

Author: poem of Bob Hicok Type: poem Views: 7

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The telephone company calls and asks what the fuss is.

Betty from the telephone company, who's not concerned

with the particulars of my life. For instance

if I believe in the transubstantiation of Christ

or am gladdened at 7:02 in the morning to repeat

an eighth time why a man wearing a hula skirt of tools

slung low on his hips must a fifth time track mud

across my white kitchen tile to look down at a phone jack.

Up to a work order. Down at a phone jack. Up to a work order.

Over at me. Down at a phone jack. Up to a work order

before announcing the problem I have is not the problem

I have because the problem I have cannot occur

in this universe though possibly in an alternate

universe which is not the responsibility or in any way

the product, child or subsidiary of AT&T. With practice

I've come to respect this moment. One man in jeans,

t-shirt and socks looking across space at a man

with probes and pliers of various inclinations, nothing

being said for five or ten seconds, perhaps I'm still

in pajamas and he has a cleft pallet or is so tall

that gigantism comes to mind but I can't remember

what causes flesh to pile that high, five or ten seconds

of taking in and being taken in by eyes and a brain,

during which I don't build a shotgun from what's at hand,

oatmeal and National Geographics or a taser from hair

caught in the drain and the million volts of frustration

popping through my body. Even though. Even though his face

is an abstract painting called Void. Even though

I'm wondering if my pajama flap is open, placing me

at a postural disadvantage. Breathe I say inside my head,

which is where I store thoughts for the winter. All

is an illusion I say by disassembling my fists, letting each

finger loose to graze. Thank you I say to kill the silence

with my mouth, meaning fuck you, meaning die

you shoulder-shrugging fusion of chipped chromosomes

and puss, meaning enough. That a portal exists in my wall

that even its makers can't govern seems an accurate mirror

of life. Here's the truce I offer: I'll pay whatever's asked

to be left alone. To receive a fax from me stand beside

your mailbox for a week. It will come in what appears

to be an envelope. While waiting for the fax reintroduce

yourself to the sky. It's often blue and will transmit

without fail everything clouds have been trying to say to you.

Anonymous submission.


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