To interpret a dream is to assassinate the subject.

I dialed the author of The Autobiography.
He answered,
“To interpret a dream is to assassinate the subject.
His receiver picked up the acoustics of his locale
“You’re in a room with large windows and loads of sunlight, yeah?” I commented.

With oceans of silence between us, I malformed a paperclip
and began chewing some black licorice—

He broke, “Do you know the various uses of resin?”
I told him that rubber boots are quite suitable
for traversing hectares of lawn after a storm
or harvesting rice.

Apparently, not listening, he stated,
“Slavery without submission seems an oxymoron, no?”

I attempted to readjust the focus.
“How are streets named?”
“First,” he replied,
“you must have a decent appetite,
then you must choose a plantation, and finally,
exorcise any aloha spirits.”

“In my opinion, sir, I believe liquor and pineapple to be indispensable to our economy.”

“The problem is,” he said,
“not enough people have explored chewing tobacco or cotton balls.
It’s a waste of earth if you ask me—may as well murder a nun.”

“Indeed, spirits are necessary.”
In the mirror my lips were mummy black
and smelled of star anise.

Assuming a generic voice I said,
“We’re sorry, your call has been disconnected.”

I smeared gum Arabic over the mouthpiece
pasted strips of pages from the autobiography
sealing each pinhole.