We would still be fools even if
we read all the books in the world. 

The Inner Lives of Books

What type of conversations do sentences have
among themselves when the pages of a book are closed?

Do they prefer to keep quiet as they are pressed face
to face against one another?

Are they like people? Do they find each other attractive
based on factors such as vocabulary and syllable count?

Do some sentences sneak out at night and cram themselves
into the pages of other books?

What kind of fiasco would it be for one of Thomas Pynchon's
sentences to invade the work of Raymond Carver?

It would be an incongruency for the ages.
Is a book a god and each chapter a parent

to the sentences within it's reach?
I do not know. I should open one of my books

and ask it. It would be reluctant to speak
and no doubt there would sentences in the back pages

squirming under inquisition, wondering how I
found out of all these shenanigans.

I will stop wondering as I begin to fall asleep
and hope the lines find their way into my dreams.

Fat Head

My brain has grown fat
from all the books

I have fed it. It desires
to be more corpulent

and I will not deny
that for which it hungers.

defining perfection

cream white pages

        the book          so beautiful
devoid of words

the look of
                   
                    perfection

Book Lovers

You can tell the discomfort a new book feels

From the first moment you hold it.

It stiffens as you flip it open to a random page.

The crisp virgin edges may try to cut you

Quick so that you set it down.

After a few moments it can begin to relax

If it senses good intentions through

The fingers feeling its being.

Given enough time it will

Open easily to such familiar touches,

It may even be fine with new hands

After some time. It won’t mind

The little bits of wear at the corners

As they become rounded

From repeated readings.

If ultimate trust is gained

It will permit marginalia

And highlighted lines of text.

It will grow despondent

If you part ways

But it knows there could be

Another set of hands

Another set of eyes

Waiting for the moment

To meet and share

The most intimate of words

From deep within its pages.

Wanting

The last I heard about L was that she was married and had a
small child after moving back to her home state. We had worked
together for a few years and had gotten to know each other fairly
well in that time. I always thought she was beautiful. She had a
southern accent that was charming every time she spoke. It only
added to her beauty.  We hadn't seen each other since she had
moved. Thinking about her filled me a sense of regret over what
had never been.

 ***

She was lying face down in my bed, the sun was streaming in a muted
tone through the white curtains at my window. She kicked her legs up
and turned her head as I walked in through the door. She smiled.
I did a double take when I realized who it was.

"What are you doing hear?" I said.

"I thought I'd come visit you for a little bit." she said as the corners of
her mouth turned upward.

"How did you find out where I was living?"

"It wasn't too hard. I really wanted to surprise you."

"Where are you staying at while you're here?" I said.

Her smile widened to show the white of her teeth.

"I figured I'd stay with you since you have a bed and all. That is if
you don't mind, of course."

"I don't."

"Are you going to just stand there, or are you going to come over?"
I hadn't moved since I froze in place at finding her. I walked over
to the bed and took my coat off and placed it on the chair of my
desk. I took off my shoes and set them near the edge of the bed.
She moved her body from the center of the bed to make room for
me. I got into the bed and laid on my back. She rolled on top of
me and said "I've missed you."

She held me close. Our noses were about to touch.

"I've missed you too," I said.

Hidden Library

Books and love letters age hidden from view. 


Touching, smelling the passage of time, 


the distance between every point. Ink, 


the permanent record of thoughts scrawled 


or printed upon the page.




What has been extinguished, what has


endured, can be seen, held, cradled.


Pages recall that which memory cannot. 


A whirling pool ensnares you into deeper


depths, widens your eyes.




Bundle the papers, close the book.