Untitled
I didn’t see you there with barnacles scattered on my face and teeth made of this keypad. When I was in grade school, everyone would call me ZeroToNine and I thought that was funny as I had 12 teeth just like everyone else.
A couple lungs.
Some ribs.
All wrapped up in some sheathing that I suppose is muscle.
My breath rattles down lines of copper and I dream of sunken ships off the coast of Spain that I read about in a comic book that I thought was an encyclopedia. I want to travel across time, instead of space, but the best I can do is grind my teeth at night, dialing random numbers across all but those two lost wisdom teeth, hoping for a wrong number that picks up.
I meet strangers in dreams like this, and we dial our teeth; pounding out archetypes with T9. We both know something about Carl Jung, but not enough to make any new discoveries, just songs of migrating birds made of dial-tones.
These dial tones ping pong down some canyons of our minds and we both watch the world, like water, pass over us as we settle into something that feels like an everlasting, incoming tide.
Dial zero for the operator.
Dial 9000 for the loot at the bottom of the ocean.
Mark von Rosenstiel
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