Song of My Cell-Phone Originally published in LitRag, 2001. 1 I celebrate my cell-phone, and shout into my cell-phone, And I shall assume you are impress'd, Because my phone belongs to me, and does not belong to you. I loafe and invite my friends over, I loafe and drive and invite my friends over for martinis and cigars. I, now thirty years old and in perfect health begin To realize what a handsome devil I am. 2 The sound of my own voice, Laughing, haranguing, threatening, ordering Chinese food, setting up meetings, The sound of the belch'd words of my voice loos'd to the eddies of the New York State Thruway, Talk this day with me and you shall possess the thrill of having talked to me, You shall listen to me and wish you were half as interesting yourself. 3 I have heard what the talkers were talking, the talk of the beginning and the end, But it's all a lot of hot air, if you ask me. Urge and urge and urge, always the procreant urge of the world, Is available at 1-900-DO-ME-NOW, unless I go out of range. Clear and sweet is my voice, thanks to this new TF-1200 chip, As is the voice of Cherry Candy, my special new friend. I am satisfied—I hope that truck driver didn't see me. 4 J. Robert Lennon, a content provider, of New Jersey the son, Review'd, blurb'd, photograph'd with his Labrador retriever, No hack, no scribbler of corny crowd-pleasing bestsellers, no way! No more modest than is absolutely necessary. Through my phone important voices, Voices of agents and directors, voices doubtful which I schmooze, Voices arrogant by me amaz'd and intimidated! 5 The strikingly good-looking savage, who is he? Is he depicting civilization, or remaking it in his image? Is he some Iowa workshopper waving fey pages? is he Kalifornian? Is he some reclusive monk of letters scratching away in a barn? Hell no! Wherever he goes, department heads accept and desire him, They desire to give him tenure, the big office, an easy course load, sabbaticals. They agree to loosen the sexual harassment policy. I am the teacher of writers, He that by me publishes more stories than I do I shall flunk out of grad school, He who copies my style I shall pooh-pooh in the New York Review of Books. 6 A call in the midst of the crowd, My own voice, orotund sweeping and final. I am that important! I acknowledge the duplicates of myself, imitators with similarly small and versatile cell-phones, But I mean really! Are you listening to what they are saying? Don't make me laugh. 7 What was I saying? Oh, right— About me being terrific. Do I repeat myself? Very well then I repeat myself, (My network is large, my speed-dial contains multitudes.) Who is interrupting my day's work? What magazine do you say you're from? Who wishes to interview me? Get in line, buster. 8 O gen'rous muse! ever-brilliant prolificity. O book deal, negotiated, executed and fulfilled. My fans suffocate me, Jostling me through bookstores and lecture halls, coming naked to me at night, Crying by day Author! from the end of my driveway, Calling me every moment of my life, Who gave you this number? 9 The traffic cop swoops by and accuses me, he complains of my gabbing while driving. Hey, officer, what am I supposed to do When my cell-phone sounds its electric cheep over the roads of the world? I bequeath to him this signed first edition, It coaxes him to put away his tickets. You may hardly know what my stuff means, But read it anyway, So that you can say you have done so at parties. Failing to reach me at first keep encouraged, Missing me once leave a message on voicemail, I'll pull over somewhere and call you back. c2001 by J. Robert Lennon.