black telephone

,

a flock of
black telephones
mute
on the lake
in the morning

.

winter dusk
out of a tree
glazed with crows
falls a black telephone

.

his fluttering heart
the black telephone

rises

.

black telephone,
the latest casualties

.

parallel lines finally meet the black telephone

.

long…

.

long winter night
the crackling
of text messages

.

lingering cold
my breath clouds
the phone screen

.

melting snow
I change my ring tone
to something faster

.

These days this blog is basically my playground. I think I used to have much more of a sense of trying to impress people or please them when I wrote here. Or maybe I didn’t? I don’t really remember anymore. But I know that lately this idea of the blog as my playground has been very strong in my mind. For a while it felt like a burden, like a chore I had to do. Maybe it just got to be that way after a while. Now it’s like, oh, I get to write some stuff! I get to write whatever I want! Whatever crazy thing comes into my head! And it really doesn’t matter if anyone likes it! Because blogs are free and no one has to read anything they don’t want to and even if no one reads it at all, I’m having a great time!

No, I’m not trying to say these haiku are especially crazy. They’re pretty conventional. They’re a little dull, to me. They’re what I felt like writing tonight.

I think tomorrow I’ll feel like writing something completely different.

Addendum, 4/5/14: Okay, I just discovered this. I really have to read my blog more often. Apparently I don’t have an original thought in my head.

.

.
.

April 28: Post Office

The main post office on Gorky Street in Moscow. A line of squat beige phones —  a line of people in thick coats to their ankles standing beside them. Staring at them like half-boiled pots, waiting for them to ring. Waiting to hear the voice of someone from the other side of the Iron Curtain.

You’ve filled in the required forms. When do you want to talk? Whom do you want to talk to? For how long would you like this conversation to continue? Be careful: they’ll give you exactly the amount of time you ask for, no more and no less. But the phones are ringing, your mind is buzzing, you can only make awkward, half-thought-through calculations.

Not long after our phones ring and we lift the receivers to our ears like stones, we realize we answered all the questions wrong. The conversations should have been earlier or later, longer or shorter. The people we are talking to are not people we really know. We’ve forgotten the languages they’re speaking. We live in different countries for what we now know is forever, though we meant it to be temporary. “Wait —” we say. “It’s about to end —”

The phone makes a noise that means my life has returned to me. Everything goes silent until it’s the next person’s turn. Down the line, feet shuffle, stirring the hems of coats.

.

melting snow —
letting go
of what I meant to say

___________________________________________________________________________

.

(Chrysanthemum 9, April 2011)