It was Bernadette Mayer who gave me the idea: Maybe we could be outside almost all the time,
like sex and lists. Only I read it as maybe we could be outside of all time, like Hamlet was,
out of joint. Or at least not beholden to it. It never crossed my mind that she could mean
Maybe we could spend all our time outside. I never pictured Bernadette Mayer outside,
which is not to say that I ever pictured her indoors either, but maybe I pictured her
waiting by the phone. Or better yet, as the phone itself, its cord suspended intestinal from
a waiting receiver (yes, she was a rotary phone—pale yellow!). I’m workshopping this image:
I want it to be stranger, which is to say I’ve called up my fair share of jerks and all it gave me
was a bellyache. I’d prefer the ache reach my heart. I’d prefer a versified logjam somewhere
it could hold back the blood. A clot of consonance would mean something more than this hunger.
At least if I choked from the coagulation of syllables I might manage some last words before
disintegration. Talk is so hard, even on the phone. The coil frays at its base and disconnects from
the rectum of the Mayer-telephone. This might be a more beautiful thing: I will workshop it during
the next blizzard and make my decision, with an icicle thrust between my left and right ventricle.
