I'm basically reading some poems that people in a class
here have read.
And I talked to them this morning.
So I thought it would be nice for them to hear them aloud.
"Call out.
Press nine.
I will hear some shift of gray in the air.
Will ingest the frost of its silence.
A six-foot bed and a sprawler's sigh
through the wall of this fifty-pound hotel
occupied by the dropped.
Call out, no call back.
Fall fast forward without will to the window.
The other world is pressed against the glass--
a kind of heaven, a known nothing.
Call out to the cone-opening light
to colors never seen before but most familiar.
Call out of the grit in your tissue
before your days are written or you will
be too late for the answer.
Be really primitive.
A thin finger picture of nature under-nurtured.
Like egg, parchment, glue and the breath of the artist.
Call come in at last immaterial when or where
a message from that.
I will be packed into people against a strange tin.
Vehicles will glitter and polyphony the interrupter
will cut every sentence in half.
Call I won't call back.
Call up into the night.
'Knower, how is this voice different from the others?'"