A FREE,

OVER THE PHONE

CONSULTATION

by Joseph Goosey

The people,
they seem enjoy my poetry
well enough,
but the positive reviews
always happen to be coupled
with some sort of vague diagnosis
of mental illness.

I receive acceptances
from associate professors
in British Colombia,
or from single-fathers-of-three
in Akron.

"The staff of the British Columbia
Technical Institute Quarterly Review
we felt that the sense of urgency
in your poem 'PLEASE, HELP, HELP,
I AM DYING AND SO IS THE CATFISH'
is worthy of publication. We would
like your permission to run it in our
spring issue. Also, enclosed
is the contact information for
Kathy Johansen, an excellent intern
in the psychology program.
She would love to have a chat with you."

Or there is always:

"Hey man, loved your work,
the issue will be out
as soon as my tax refund check
comes through and I pay my car
insurance. Sometimes I think
that I have really lost
my fucking marbles but then
I receive some lines like yours
and feel reassured about
my own personal situation.
Hang in there."

I can't say that I am
offended by any of this
because anyone
who is willing to publish
anything I write
is a glorious little ray of sunlight
coming through a crack
in a porous rock.

I can't even say
that I disagree
in the slightest.

Once,
I called a psychologist
for a free, over the phone
consultation.
I hung up when she
got to the part
about narcissism
and phone bills.

I decided it would be best
to continue to send out
those self addressed
stamped envelopes to
the professors
and more importantly,
to the
divorcees.