Call Dropped

Call dropped.

We’re writers – poets – yet don’t seem to communicate well.

At least with each other in spite of electronic access

presumably comprehended imagistic word choices and esoteric free

wordsmithing with wifi,

familiar, not confused, analogies,

clear, clever similes that should be grasped

given age, experience, scars,

shared

education, idiom, grammatical infrastructure, coerced pedagogical insights, even

conjured supple ellipses segued like parting lovers in morning’s light;

there’s a comprehension problem, my dear, as

words meanings intents just fly by in the express lanes

without stopping for paid interlopers or even interpreters which is worse

because you are one so I guess that makes me an interloper which I think I’m not.

Apparently you have to come to think of me as one

(which is better by far than to be thought of than as a stalker)

in spite of your disarming smile and easy endearments that continue, invite,

confuse and render me….

umlautless.

At this point I don’t know who to emulate or even embrace:

Catullus, Dante, Hugo, Lewis and Clark or Hefner:

each a guy with a BabeMuse in sight who’s seemingly grasped then somehow lost to the vapors –

a triple consonant stand -

their only option remaining:

fashion a fantasy,

acquiesce to the unassailability of the mountain, or

or be consigned to eternal categorization.

I suppose there’s always radio.