I found the scrap of City Paper classified, the 1-900 number and photos like candidates there, in love’s voting machine. Discomfort station. No pissoir. Hothouse maybe for a fourteenth-year sprig: me. Light box to slideshow the introvert cloaked in a prepaid identity discreet as a shirttail in the fly. Ma Bell’s shelter was brutal & snug. I’d heard the ram’s horn hum. A hymn. Just like prayer I thought. No answer. Clack’d the splendid tongue and bloom! Salutations rose like pollen, prepped me for the inverse of police sketch artists, the one who would evoke so I could render, in my mind, the enigma of the wanted; one to source the vacuum wrenching stutters like rivets off my tongue. Plink. Into the sewer of the mouthpiece. Then the universal ballad of the waiting room. Casiotone. Hold (me) music. No orgone closet. More like that other-lonely doom—the body encapsulated, its inventory ever unknown. Dantean vestibule. Anti-chat room. When the genderless voice beyond began to lavish I grew ears all over, inner ears swiveling from one tepid libretto to the next tuning for some satin frequency the culture promised until, I repent (forgive me father), the card went bust. Copyright © 2014 by Gregory Pardlo. Used with permission of the author. |
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