Voicemail Poems

In August it’s hard not to want – everything heavy with it – ginkgo fruit rots on sidewalks, sweat falls down spines, the whole beast city breathes in smog and breathes out low clouds dropping lightning. Confused, a little, reading subway signs for revelation, it all comes up wonder – which pre-historic lizard dragged itself up into daylight just so you could buy Calvin Klein underwear and forget to call your mom on purpose? Who’s your manager, Saint Sebastian? Maimonides? What day of the week is it? How did you get this number? Rumi, I told you to stop calling my motel. I need to be alone for a long time, ride the empty train over the bridge back and forth, commune with Whitman above the East River. Where else do you go to ask when summer cherry pit spits questions into your lap? Whose ghost do I see on street corners? When does the weight lift? What do I do with this little bit of time I’ve caught to live inside? What do I do now I want to eat every apple, seed stem core? Who belongs, who decides? Does