Just Noise

Just Noise

A late night
phone call
pulling us far
past the limits of

“Poetry,” she said
“read me a poem”

I had read her
all of mine that I was
willing to share
hundreds of times

“Write me one”
she said– She didn’t
realize I always did
deep in the notebooks
and journals, but they still
were not perfect enough
and of course
I don’t write on
other’s command.

I decided to read her
somebody else–
tonight was Bukowski
(like most of my nights)
“Love is a Dog
From Hell”

I started reading and
then kept reading until
the phone fell to a complete
silence interrupted by the
small brustle of breath.
“Are you awake
Hunny bunches
and oats” (as
I call her in jest)
“Yes” a soft faint
voice of dreams responded
Should I let you sleep?
“No… Your voice…
Keep reading.”

I said goodnight
because I expected the inevitable
and I continued reading
poems of helplessness, whores,
suicide, murder, roaches, scotch
beer, and what ever Bukowski
was thinking at the moment of
poetry’s conception.

and I kept reading
knowing any poem would fix
her fixation. For her
it wasn’t the words, it was just me
my voice.

Of course the words were for me
reading keeping me talking so I can
get lost in something other than the
monotonous life of being human.

i was reading words of a god
of the art, thinking I wonder if
he ever talked on the phone to a
woman till she drifted off.

I could hear her
breath on the phone
the breath was calm,
and rhythmic and
there was no hiding that dreams had
come over her mind and
there were no words now, just
I kept reading thinking
that my voice was traveling
an hour away to where i was
standing in her thoughts
and emotions created by
her unconscious.

Or at least that’s what i hoped.

This is why I love poetry…
documenting moments, thoughts, and
speaking now to be heard and relived
years later… or just
to comfort her in her sleep.

Bukowski and I live again.

“Goodnight” I whispered
and hung up the phone and
continued reading.


3 thoughts on “Just Noise

  1. Oh, how I love this! I do the same thing, only my sweetheart is a man who does not like my poetry; he just likes to fall asleep when I speak. This made me LOL. At the same time, it is beautifully written with evocative sentiments that I, poet, understand deep in my bones and under my ego-skin. Especially the end – that’s why we write, isn’t it? For ourselves, for the love of words and the sound of our own voices speaking. Snzzzzzzzz.

  2. Love these lines: Of course the words were for me
    reading keeping me talking so I can
    get lost in something other than the
    monotonous life of being human.

    We are always trying to escape the monotony with our poems, aren’t we?

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