The Telemarketer Calls Basho About a Cure for the Winter Blues

The Telemarketer Calls Basho About a Cure for the Winter Blues The Telemarketer Calls Bash About a Cure for the Winter Blues/Gabriel Welsch Good evening, sir. I'm calling today to ask if you know anything about seasonal affective disorder. Winter seclusion-- sitting propped against the same worn post Yeah, sort of. Never really heard it put that way before. You're quite, ummm-- I would like to use that scarecrow's tattered clothes in this midnight frost Yeah, that's sort of it, too. You see, um, some people when they don't have light-- Lonely silence, a single cicada's cry sinking into stone Uh, okay, what? Wet with morning dew and splotched with mud, the melon looks especially cool Are you listening To me? Do you understand? It's not a day or night . . . THE MISSOURI REVIEW Your song caresses the depth of loneliness, O high mountain bird Okay, that's enough. Even in Kyoto, how I long for Kyoto when the cuckoo sings You think you're so great, but I can do what you do, cryptic words. Small breaths. Hmmmph. Your bird flits. Wire to smoked sky, mindless as snow, all sun glare. No weight. I keep calling poets. You all do this, throw your words up like shields at http://www.deepdyve.com/assets/images/DeepDyve-Logo-lg.png The Missouri Review University of Missouri

The Telemarketer Calls Basho About a Cure for the Winter Blues

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Abstract

The Telemarketer Calls Bash About a Cure for the Winter Blues/Gabriel Welsch Good evening, sir. I'm calling today to ask if you know anything about seasonal affective disorder. Winter seclusion-- sitting propped against the same worn post Yeah, sort of. Never really heard it put that way before. You're quite, ummm-- I would like to use that scarecrow's tattered clothes in this midnight frost Yeah, that's sort of it, too. You see, um, some people when they don't have light-- Lonely silence, a single cicada's cry sinking into stone Uh, okay, what? Wet with morning dew and splotched with mud, the melon looks especially cool Are you listening To me? Do you understand? It's not a day or night . . . THE MISSOURI REVIEW Your song caresses the depth of loneliness, O high mountain bird Okay, that's enough. Even in Kyoto, how I long for Kyoto when the cuckoo sings You think you're so great, but I can do what you do, cryptic words. Small breaths. Hmmmph. Your bird flits. Wire to smoked sky, mindless as snow, all sun glare. No weight. I keep calling poets. You all do this, throw your words up like shields at

Journal

The Missouri ReviewUniversity of Missouri

Published: Oct 8, 2004

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