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When I Called Perry Brass at Two in the Morning I didnít know what I was thinking. I was bored as hell. There wasnít anything On cable. I couldnít think of a poem to write. New York was giving me nosebleeds & busted lips. The original plan was to hang up if he answered, But then I thought, what if he has caller i.d. or Star sixty-nineís my ass? Luckily the machine picked up; I left a message: Perry, hi, my name is Shane & I just called to say that Iím a Big fan of your work. Sex Charge kicks ass. I would love to Speak with you about poetry & publishing. Give me a call At this number. Peeking from beneath my boy-blue blanket, The sun rose; the car horns crowed like roosters. The new phone I bought from Queens, rang. Who the hell is that calling me at this hour? I got out of bed scratching my ass, wiping the aftermath Of dreams out my eyes, my cock shining from my plaid boxers Rose before me. Hello? Hi, This is Perry Brass. Oh hi, I replied. I got your message, said Perry. I want to thank you for calling, But donít ever call that late again. My lover will kill you. I apologized until my tongue bled like a young virginís ass. Once he is awake, itís hard for him to get back to sleep. He suffers From terrible insomnia, said Perry. Suddenly I felt like a lunatic, Like Glenn Close from Fatal Attraction cuz I damn near woke up Perry Brassí lover. I just wanted to let him know that his poetry Is better than cheese grits. We talked until ten a.m., which is unusual For me cuz I donít do nothing before noon. I was losing beauty sleep By the pints. Can I e-mail you some poems, I asked. I would like to know What you think of my work. Sure, he said. The next week he called me wonderful, But said the ending in Searching for Allen Ginsberg could use a little work. I think he forgives me, but maybe I should give him a call just to be sure? Itís only 1:59.
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