It became habit to pick up a payphone whenever around one. We would dial zero and, quickly attached at mouth and ear to another human, recite a poem or a speech or, if feeling particularly inspired, deliver an improvisational rant, trying our best to express some lost consciousness hidden within humanity. Clearly the telephone operators were an easy target. Always available, quick to answer, confused when presented with poetry instead of requests to be connected. Certainly, as audio nomads, amidst a sea of copper static and brief interactions, we were outlaws, infecting phone networks with verbal virus.

Over the years, our repertoires have grown. Once recited Burroughs, several times Heinlein, often times Poe, a fair amount of Rives. Occasionally sung Lilium or Miserere Mei, sometimes e e cummings too–sung or spoken. The operators, constantly unprepared, continue to recite back the same response, “Do you need assistance placing a call…?”
One day, I know, some operator will respond in kind, serving back Rilke with Kafka, Ginsberg with Carrol, Oberst with Eivy.