Classic and Contemporary Poetry: Explained

Bob Hicok’s "Spirit Ditty of No Fax-Line Dial Tone" is a wry meditation on frustration, technology, and the absurdity of modern bureaucracy. The poem takes a mundane event—the speaker dealing with a faulty phone line and an indifferent technician—and transforms it into an existential encounter, layered with humor, irritation, and a sense of cosmic absurdity. The structure of the poem mirrors the experience itself: circular, repetitive, and escalating toward philosophical resignation.

The poem opens with the indifferent call from the telephone company: "The telephone company calls and asks what the fuss is." The phrase "what the fuss is" sets the tone of detached condescension, immediately establishing that the speaker’s frustration will not be met with empathy. "Betty from the telephone company, who’s not concerned with the particulars of my life." The dry humor here suggests that Betty, representing the faceless corporate machine, is not interested in the speaker’s individuality—whether he believes in "the transubstantiation of Christ" or simply hates dealing with morning inconveniences.

The repetition that follows—"Up to a work order. Down at a phone jack. Up to a work order. Over at me. Down at a phone jack. Up to a work order."—captures the maddening, bureaucratic rhythm of a service call gone wrong. The technician’s movement becomes an absurdist loop, mimicking the repetitive motions of both the corporate and physical worlds. The technician, rather than fixing the issue, essentially declares it impossible: "the problem I have is not the problem I have because the problem I have cannot occur in this universe." The introduction of an "alternate universe" where the issue might exist adds a comic, science-fictional touch, as if the phone jack has become an interdimensional mystery beyond human comprehension. AT&T, of course, is not responsible for such metaphysical anomalies.

The poem then pivots to a moment of existential reflection: "With practice I’ve come to respect this moment." The speaker recognizes that this exchange—two people locked in an absurd non-conversation—has become ritualistic. The technician, with his "probes and pliers of various inclinations," is not just a worker but a figure in a surrealist tableau. The speaker notes odd details: "perhaps I’m still in pajamas and he has a cleft palate or is so tall that gigantism comes to mind." These observations veer toward the grotesque and dreamlike, reinforcing the disconnect between reality and the situation’s absurdity.

The speaker resists the violent impulses frustration provokes: "during which I don’t build a shotgun from what’s at hand, oatmeal and National Geographics, or a taser from hair caught in the drain and the million volts of frustration popping through my body." The hyperbolic imagination of weaponizing mundane household items dramatizes his irritation, turning his helplessness into an exaggerated survivalist fantasy. The technician, described as having "a face like an abstract painting called Void," is reduced to an impersonal, unhelpful presence, an embodiment of bureaucratic failure.

The next lines—"Breathe I say inside my head, which is where I store thoughts for the winter."—indicate the speaker’s attempt to self-soothe, but also inject a wry, seasonal metaphor for bottled-up frustration. The escalation continues with: "All is an illusion I say by disassembling my fists, letting each finger loose to graze." The act of "disassembling my fists" suggests a forced calm, a deliberate release of aggression.

This forced politeness culminates in the sharp irony of the phrase: "Thank you I say to kill the silence with my mouth, meaning fuck you, meaning die you shoulder-shrugging fusion of chipped chromosomes and pus, meaning enough." The contrast between surface courtesy and internal rage is exaggerated to the point of grotesque humor, as the technician becomes a dehumanized biological accident in the speaker’s mind. Yet, the fury remains unspoken, contained within the absurd civility of "Thank you."

The poem’s final shift takes the speaker beyond anger and into philosophical resignation: "That a portal exists in my wall that even its makers can’t govern seems an accurate mirror of life." The faulty fax line becomes a metaphor for human confusion, for the uncontrollable elements of existence that corporations pretend to manage but ultimately do not understand. The speaker surrenders: "Here’s the truce I offer: I’ll pay whatever’s asked to be left alone." Money, as always, becomes the last resort to escape the Kafkaesque nightmare of customer service.

The closing lines turn the broken fax line into a surrealist resolution: "To receive a fax from me stand beside your mailbox for a week. It will come in what appears to be an envelope." The fax, now rendered meaningless, is reimagined as traditional mail, a system older but perhaps more reliable than the malfunctioning technology of the present. The poem ends on a lyrical, almost mystical note: "While waiting for the fax reintroduce yourself to the sky. It’s often blue and will transmit without fail everything clouds are trying to say to you." After all the rage and absurdity, the poem concludes with an unexpected meditation on patience and nature. The sky, in contrast to corporate failure, communicates effortlessly, though what it says is left for interpretation.

Hicok’s "Spirit Ditty of No Fax-Line Dial Tone" is a brilliant blend of satire, frustration, and existential reflection. Through escalating repetition, exaggerated observations, and humor-laced anger, the poem captures the maddening experience of dealing with modern bureaucracy. But beyond that, it also reveals a deeper truth about human helplessness in the face of technology and institutions that claim to serve but ultimately alienate. The ending suggests that sometimes, stepping away from such systems—into the simplicity of nature—offers the only real clarity.

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