Saturday, October 12, 2013

Phone Home

Telegraph, bearer of far writing, 
your encrypted newborn cry

soon petered to the mild request,
sounded from afar,
Mr Watson, come here, I want to see you,

until today, Watson clings to Watson, mouth to ear, 
from waking until sleeping, 
at home, at work, at table, in the street, 
in cars, trains, planes, shops, churches, theaters, hospitals -- 
a living, wireless Corpus of loneliness and chat --

we're drowning in an sea of speech that's pitched
to the tin ears we clutch like rosaries
hoping for another  I want to see you
to break into the noise the noise the noise --
of everything

It's autumn, the season of
who has no house now/ will never have one. 

And yet, and yet --

houseless is not homeless,
the subtle call

and answer are still and phoneless here and there --

out of and into nothing, sic transiting

our glorious mundane --

Audite. Non loqui. 

Come in from the cold. And eat.

1 comment:

tristan said...

and i would really love to hear YOUR voice ...