Rose & Thorn Journal - Winter 2012
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Host of the Gelato Poetry Series, instigator of the San Diego Poetry Un-Slam, and an editor of the San Diego Poetry Annual, Jon Wesick has published more than fifty short stories in journals such as Space and Time, Zahir, Tales of the Talisman and Metal Scratches. He has also published over two hundred poems.
Jon Wesick
Signal to Noise
“Can you hear me?” The woman, whose reading glasses hung from her neck by a beaded chain, tapped the microphone. “I’m Dr. Priscilla Windfellow. Tonight, we have what promises to be an exceptional evening of poetry. I’d like to welcome Pablo Neruda, Allen Ginsberg, and Charles Bukowski back from the other side.”
The three spirits nodded from their chairs beside the podium when Dr. Windfellow called their names. With black caterpillar eyebrows, Neruda resembled a picture on a book jacket. Ginsberg had grown back his long hair and beard. Bukowski’s jittery fingers played over his coffee cup, as if he thirsted for something stronger.
The clock on the wall read 11:00. I could probably squeeze in five hours sleep before work if I made it home by 1:00. Suffering through the following day in zombie mode would be worth it, though. Who better to describe the face of God than these three?
“Before we start, I’d like to thank the people who made this event possible. Is Maggie Castaway here?” Dr. Windfellow asked.
A thin pale woman in black with black hair, black fingernails, and black lipstick stood.
“Maggie works for the East County Psychic Research Center and is responsible for getting our guests here.”
The audience clapped.
“I understand you’re having a psychic reading this Sunday. Is that correct?”
“Yes,” Maggie said. “At 10:00. We’re kitty corner from the Chinese pancake house in Vista.”
“Kevin Newman’s customer-focused company, Val U Tech, provided this space. Val U Tech leverages its core competencies and provides value added client fulfillment,” Dr. Windfellow said next.
Bukowski’s face grew red with contempt, as if he were ready to explode with rage at this sin against the language. The clock’s red second hand swept circles. Dr. Windfellow thanked everyone she could think of: her secretary, the man who made the flyers, the students who set out the chairs, and even the janitor. The audience’s gratitude faded with each introduction, until Ben of Java Benz received a silence as cold as yesterday’s coffee grounds. Neruda yawned. Quetzal feathers floated on his breath and transformed into multicolored birds that vanished like soap bubbles on the wind.
“And now on to our program . . . ."
I sat forward in my chair.
“I give you Professor Harold Filibuster, Chairman of the English Department.”
A gaunt man made his way to the podium. Dandruff flakes perched on his bony shoulders like amorous moths.
“I was fifteen when I was introduced to Pablo Neruda’s poetry,” he began. “My family had just moved to Philadelphia from a small town in Arkansas . . . .”
Filibuster’s words filled the room like knockout gas. The audience slumped like students at a 6:00 a.m. calculus class while stretching parts of their bodies going numb from boredom. Ginsberg folded his legs into full lotus position and floated over his seat. He materialized a Tibetan bell and struck it, sending forth the sound of eternity. This did not deter Professor Filibuster who launched into a recitation of his own first poem, a description of a trip to the beach with Aunt Ruth and Uncle Buddy and his teenage infatuation with lifeguard Norma Finkelstein.
I squirmed in my seat. My blood pulsed like a clock counting the passing of life’s precious moments. I thought of my mortality, the dirty dishes waiting back home, and my novel’s unfinished chapters. At five ‘til midnight the guest poets began to flicker. Ginsberg’s torso became transparent and revealed the hat rack behind him.
“Now after a few announcements, our guests will begin.” Professor Filibuster smiled like a beached catfish gulping air, and turned, but the poets had vanished like drops of water on a Tucson sidewalk.
