Donald Walkingbear

That's All

Said he lost your number
as static caught in
the outside
to the right of some vague
sound of meaning
gleaned from the
of power lines
Left stitched
by machined hands
augering telephone poles
into the graveyards
of my forefather's
deadened dreams

Said he would have called you
but his Muse is between
Dylan and Lightfoot
Roped along some
Grateful song
near legible as free verse
versed in rehearsing an idea
of near-poetry

Here's my number
You call me

She was wireless
under-wired to conspire
against satellite moods
picked up on copper line defined
by some near-poet
nearly poetically pathetic
as spidering the landscape
between Podunk
and the rest of her world
with these
webs of deceit

Keeps her telephone receipts
to prove he's called
whenever he's stalled in mood
his convolute resolutions

Believes she's the solution
if only she could love enough


I channel my Grandfather's spirit
through the telephone pole
buried in the dust of his head
mislead through the e

Motion sensitive as a six-axis
controller to the truth
of the truth

Grandfather says he knows
I two-way power line
a hyphenated definition deposed
below the molecular

She just ate a god-head mushroom
and believes me telling the truth
has given lie to the lie
of my Grandfather's last breath

And someone's waiting
for a call

-That's All-

Poem Submitted: Monday, February 15, 2010

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