I'm a victim of telephone.
When I lay down to sleep,
dream the wishing well, it rings.
Have you a new play
for the broken down theater?
When I write in my notebook
poem, it rings.
Buster Keaton's under the Brooklyn Bridge
on Frankfort and Pearl.
When I unsheathe my skin,
extend my cock towards someone's thighs,
fat or thin, boy or girl, ting -a -ling,
please get him out of jail,
the police are crashing down.
When I lift the soup spoon to my lips,
the phone on the floor begins purring.
Hello, it's me.
I'm in the park with two
bros from Iowa.
Nowhere to sleep last night.
Hit him in the mouth.
When I'm mused at smoke
crawling over the roof
outside my street window
purifying eternity
with my eye observation
of gray vaporous columns in the sky.
Ring ring. Hello. This is
Esquire.
Be a dear and finish your political
commitment manifesto.
When I listen to radio presidents
roaring on the convention floor,
the phone also chimes in.
Rush up to Harlem with us
and see the riots.
Always a telephone linked to all the hearts of the world beating at once,
crying, my husband's gone,
my boyfriend's busted forever,
my poetry was rejected,
won't you come over for money and
please
won't you write me a piece of bullshit,
how are you dear,
can you come to East Hampton,
we're all here bathing in the ocean,
we're all so lonely,
and I laid down back on my palate
contemplating a 50 phone bill,
broke, drowsy, anxious,
my heart fearful
of the fingers dialing, the death,
the singing of the telephone bells,
ringing at dawn,
ringing all afternoon,
ringing up midnight,
ringing now forever.