Westwind

Missing Calls

M.M. Batavia

Homophones would get stuck in the telephone

If I called, and picked up.

 

The vernacular is a pidgin of elisions,

A parataxis of catachresis.

My discourse is of course

Discursive. Relative. Mom

Asks what’s up. I say,

Nothing, Or nothing.

Both mean something

Else––I digress.

She tunes out if I say something

That sounds like jargon. Sounds nice, she says.

In person she sees my face

Value, though I might as well be signing––

Speaking cipher language.

As usual, I’m speaking for myself.

 

I drop calls when dropping a line falls

Flat and sinks with utter enigmas

That threaten to turn

Into omissions––        I fidget

With ideas I can’t literally say:

Hold conversation, keep in touch,

Real talk––I never

Get hung up on

Phonemes, but hang myself

Over semantics, and resign,

Sifting through synonyms online,

To keep sameness

From slipping

Into static.

 

Mom says, If you don’t have anything nice to say––

I say, Say nothing, nicely, or nothing nicely,

And I need to listen.

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