ethical lacunae: worldwish

i.
in the phone conversation
she speaks of liking silences
[when the person we're supposed to be helping
and haven't
is flummoxed to find euphemisms
for their disappointment]

"liking" here means
savoring someone's discomfiture--
which is something
that is ethically co
m
promising

ii.
last night i watched the new star trek
on hd - first time watching on that type of machine -
and i knew i was lost forever to the bright
deep beauty
on the other side of the wall
where it is still possible to be gallant, just,
and make a difference

i will walk through, doubtless

iii.
is this better than liking terse walls of silences,
to prefer
escape?

iv.
the deeper worldwish
in the heart of me
is for right-here-breath,
staying-with,
abiding

the notsilent silence of tidal windtreebreathing
the notsilent peace of skin-in-earth

Plan 2 - a short story in progress

Plan 2 – a short story in progress

Plan 2 heard its rice burn whine just before the motorcycle pulled up near where he sat. The operator was a guy wearing a blue neck kerchief and a helmet with blue and red x-rays on either side. He was mustacheless with a blond goatee. His blond hair came out from behind his gray helmet. He was wearing red high tops with green laces. The bike was an imported Panda VI chrome and red. The guy backed the bike into the curb. Plan 2 came over and got on back.

“Where to?” the guy asked

“Santa Cruz dude”.

“That’s in California man.”

“I know. Let’s stop at Tulane first”.

“Who ya gonna call” read the banner flying from a wooden two-story Tulane student apartment building. Across the street from it an answer on another white banner with black dripping oily ink

. 1-800-BLOWOUT Their toll-free number provides a clue

As the cycle slowed then stopped Plan 2 hopped off and went around the back of the blowout banner building. The wooden steps to the second floor were red-paint flecked and slippery from too hot sun. At the top there was no one visible through the glass window of the door. Plan 2 felt the door knob turn under his hand and he strode in. He went down the hall to number 23 and did a light three rap knock. Tuh tuh pause tuhng. A blond girl wearing après ski boots with fake fur over blue jeans and a levi blouse tied at the waist answered. She smiled and said “That was fast”. Plan 2 reached in his pocket and handed her a white envelope. She reached into her jean’s pocket and pulled out a silver money clip and counted off 3 twenties. Plan 2 looked up from her bare belly button took the cash and said “ See ya”.

II

Plan 2 dialed on his phone that 1-800 BLOWOUT number and was directed to a menu where he pressed 2 for Clean-up opportunities. It reminded him of the options courts gave for weekend service. One time he even got credit for volunteering time at an art center doing screen printing. He had liked that. There had been women and paints and cool machinery. Now he got another 504 area code number to follow up through. He called and finally got a live person who said he had to complete a phone interview to proceed any further. Cool. He said he was ready.

1-800 Blowout Survey

“Can you fish?”

“Can you operate a portable P.C.?”

“Are you allergic to any chemicals?”

“Can you swim?”

“Do you have a car?”

“Do you have a driver’s license?”

& that was it. Leave your cell phone number & an email address.

Plan 2 tugged his hat down low dialed his cell again & punched Lisa’s #.

“Man, I just did the 1-800-Blowout survey.”

“And?”

“They want to know if you can fish.”

“And?”

“Anyone can fish.”

“I can’t.”

“I told them I can.”

“You better watch out. They will send you to clean up one of the alligator swamps.”

“They might. Well, wish me luck Lisa.”

“Good luck.”

“See you later.”

“After a while.”

Plan 2 snapped his cell shut like it was an alligator’s jaws.

This Week's Prompt: Playing Telephone

During this time of Mercury retrograde, this week's prompt relates to the telephone. Write a poem where the lines play telephone with each other, or where the poem is sparked by a line from a telephone conversation. Modern riff: text or tweet sparks the verse.

Alternately, on a Star Trek riff, how can poetry be like telephone conversations with the past or future, or with some other part of ourselves? What would you want your Star Trek communicator to look like and function as? -- Or what would your character's signature line be, rather than "Beam me up, Scotty"?

Bonus: a Star Trek Communicator sound - this one with music

Post keyword labels: telephone, poem, [poet's moniker]