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About this Poem 

“Eve Sedgewick’s Epistemology of the Closet inspired me to look for another symbolic medium of sexual consciousness, and I found myself writing an allegory of awakening using the ancient vehicle of the phone booth. I see the kid in the poem as a kind of Baudelairean Quixote coursing electric distances in search of love.”

—Gregory Pardlo

Epistemology of the Phone Booth

Gregory Pardlo

                       

                         I found the scrap of City Paper
classified, the 1-900 number and photos
like candidates there, in love’s voting machine.

Discomfort station. No pissoir. Hothouse maybe for
a fourteenth-year sprig: me. Light box
to slideshow the introvert
             cloaked in a prepaid identity

discreet as a shirttail in the fly.
                                                 Ma Bell’s shelter
was brutal & snug. I’d heard the ram’s horn hum.
A hymn. Just like prayer I thought. No answer.
Clack’d the splendid tongue
                                                and bloom!
Salutations rose like pollen, prepped me for
            the inverse of police
sketch artists, the one who would evoke so I could render,
in my mind, the enigma of the wanted; one to source
             the vacuum wrenching stutters like rivets

off my tongue.
             Plink. Into the sewer of the mouthpiece.
Then the universal ballad of the waiting room.
Casiotone.
                                                 Hold (me) music.

                                    No orgone
closet. More like that other-lonely doom—the body
encapsulated, its inventory ever unknown.      Dantean vestibule.
Anti-chat room.
                        When the genderless voice beyond
began to lavish I grew ears all over,
                                                             inner ears
swiveling from one tepid libretto to the next
tuning for some satin frequency the culture
promised until, I repent (forgive me father), the card went bust.

Copyright @ 2014 by Gregory Pardlo. Used with permission of the author. This poem appeared in  on August 5, 2014.

Copyright @ 2014 by Gregory Pardlo. Used with permission of the author. This poem appeared in  on August 5, 2014.

Gregory Pardlo

Gregory Pardlo was born in Philadelphia in 1968. His first book, Totem, received the American Poetry Review/ Honickman Prize in 2007. His poems have appeared or are forthcoming in American Poetry ReviewBoston ReviewCallalooGulf CoastHarvard ReviewThe NationPloughsharesTin House, and Best American Poetry 2010, as well as several anthologies, including Angles of Ascent, the Norton Anthology of Contemporary African American Poetry.

by this poet

poem
Paul Green
Of course I know the story of the scorpion
and the frog. I've known Biggers all my life.
I’ve cast down my buckets where I've
stood with them, shoulder to shoulder, our bodies
bent like double helices in the fields. And
when the mob came for Dick didn’t I sit anyways
outside his quarters all
poem
for Jackson Pollack

on the bar of the Cedar Tavern: the shot 
that got spilled after you'd taken several rounds,
making the oak bar report 
your vigor each time with the glass 
emptied of its mayhem. 
Before the impulse could travel its course 
to spark your hand reaching again for the glass, 
Creeley's
poem
                  Plow-piled snow shrouded 
         in shadow from the abbreviating sun, snow 
frosted with the exhaust of tour buses. Pigeons shift in congress. 
                  Sun glints windshields & chrome 
         like cotton blooms in the monitors. Surveillance here is catholic. 

From cornices