Down on the Line

Phone line beeps twice,
whispers its sultry
corporate code, breathes
brand-names like sad
lost-lovers to whip
you erotic,
jealously ready
to reclaim the correct price;

And you prepare to make nice,
stretch the unseen rictus grin
across your voice, a face,
invisible, can hear you smile, feel
you strain to see the screen, to
avoid the screaming calm
of playing God with cars, where
God explains he's powerless, impatient,
out of time,
takes your name and number,
and hangs up, hangs
by the headset phonecord
umbilicus
until either it,
or you,
stop transmitting, spitting
snot in the sink
on your third extra break, just clearing
the green
and blood-colored crud
before your guilt numbers jump
to unacceptable levels,
report you
a certain percent indisposed;

Were your eyes closed? Did
you miss a beet (I mean beep)?
Is this where you go, sometimes
when you sleep?
Are
your wounds weeping out
rancid little
liquid bits of you?
Are your sleep-rumpled slacks
noticeably stained? Can
they hear you dishevel
over the line? Does your stubble
scratch like static? Is
the crumble of your rubble
an audible decay? Has your wallet pocket
completely frayed, one corner
displayed to the world, to
the beauracratic watch?

What time is it?

But you know
you can't leave yet; the
weight of screen sings
shrill plasma flatness,
and the phone demands service, and
you sit, and don't fall
to your knees; you greet,
you sneeze, you limply lie,
you transfer, and your voice
falls
from a wind
to a hoarse breeze.