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More poems by Bob HicokBob Hicok | Print this page.Print | View and Write CommentsComments | Books by Bob HicokBooks by Bob Hicok

Spirit Dity Of No Fax Line Dial Tone

Bob Hicok

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.

Added: 24 Feb 2003 | Last Read: 22 Mar 2018 3:54 PM | Viewed: 4872 times

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URL: http://plagiarist.com/poetry/7989/ | Viewed on 22 March 2018.
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