The Things You Used to Say

I wish you would say
the things you used to say.
the things that were said
when you did
the things you used to do.

there are birds in the trees, only,
now the shakes of death
scatter leaves and grief
at your feet.

you must know how you've
          diedandleftmehere
                      withnothingbutthepotpourri
                                  ofcrowsandbeatingheartsandshreds
                                             ofletterswrittenandneversentbutstilltheylinethefloor
yes, you must know;
change is always evident.

there is no more string
to hold us together,
tighter.
just the stark and callous
phone lines, lining the alleys.

My mother always made me promise
to keep up the connections;
I found out the hard way,
when people without connections
design faux-connections
a connection cannot be made.

I shall skip down the street
in the night, baring not
my soul,
but the bottoms
                          of my spineless
                                                   feet.
The neighbors ripped out
the pipes and guts that had gone
defective.
[I pray my pipes and guts go defective,
         so that someone else can rip them out]

We shall walk along the tops of the
[uncivilized, unclean, unheliotary]
houses and swing on the light post,
balance ourselves over the circus act
on the connectionless phone lines,
before we hang each other
in revenge.

A little old man eating gummy fish
three blocks away
picks up the phone and dials
starts jabbering on about
the amok generation.

His hearing aid must be out
         there will never be any dial tone again.

This I told to you a while ago,
but you didn't believe me,
and that was ironic.

Somedays I wish you would say
the things you used to say;
Most of the time,
          I wish I can't hear.