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When I Called Perry Brass at Two in the Morning
I didn’t know what I was thinking.
I was bored as hell. There wasn’t anything
On cable. I couldn’t think of a poem to write.
New York was giving me nosebleeds & busted lips.
The original plan was to hang up if he answered,
But then I thought, what if he has caller i.d. or
Star sixty-nine’s my ass?
Luckily the machine picked up; I left a message:
Perry, hi, my name is Shane & I just called to say that I’m a
Big fan of your work. Sex Charge kicks ass. I would love to
Speak with you about poetry & publishing. Give me a call
At this number.
Peeking from beneath my boy-blue blanket,
The sun rose; the car horns crowed like roosters.
The new phone I bought from Queens, rang.
Who the hell is that calling me at this hour?
I got out of bed scratching my ass, wiping the aftermath
Of dreams out my eyes, my cock shining from my plaid boxers
Rose before me. Hello? Hi, This is Perry Brass. Oh hi, I replied.
I got your message, said Perry. I want to thank you for calling,
But don’t ever call that late again. My lover will kill you.
I apologized until my tongue bled like a young virgin’s ass.
Once he is awake, it’s hard for him to get back to sleep. He suffers
From terrible insomnia, said Perry. Suddenly I felt like a lunatic,
Like Glenn Close from Fatal Attraction cuz I damn near woke up
Perry Brass’ lover. I just wanted to let him know that his poetry
Is better than cheese grits. We talked until ten a.m., which is unusual
For me cuz I don’t do nothing before noon. I was losing beauty sleep
By the pints. Can I e-mail you some poems, I asked. I would like to know
What you think of my work. Sure, he said. The next week he called me wonderful,
But said the ending in Searching for Allen Ginsberg could use a little work.
I think he forgives me, but maybe I should give him a call just to be sure?
It’s only 1:59.
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