an empty store front still had a sign, “books for sale”

i would write a song

about paul gauguin

but no one i know

would know what i was talking about

 

i would quote a line from the naked lunch

but it wouldn’t even be a hunch

that those i know would know what

i’m talking about

 

i could clarify with the verify

the author being william s. burroughs

and they would say,

“oh the guy that wrote tarzan?”

 

i could console with paul bowles

and blank eyes wouldn’t even wonder

think that i am the one who blundered

no way can he be the greatest novelist

that ever lived

they never heard of him

 

and when i recite howl by allen ginsberg

it will be words they have never heard

i could recite anne sexton

but it wouldn’t be fun

to tell them about the unknown girl

in the maternity ward

 

because they have never heard

of these things called books

only that someone can be arrested

for smuggling them into the confines

of the cages that are only lined with pages

of art that is defined by the amount of money

it made the company that distributed it to the public

 

i try to act like nothing matters

but amid the endless daily chatter

all i hear are conversations

about playstations

and slogans that enslave until

they have the consent of the uninformed

 

i am the perfect storm

but all storms dissipate and die

so i alone will have discussions in my mind

regarding kerouac’s critic of stepphenwolf  

 

i will sit on the roof

of the building that houses my apartment

and watch everyone try to matter

while writers, painters and poets

drink too much

and write about such

hobble with a crutch

 

and know a healer needs to know more than them

but illiteracy abounds

and no one can cry out hallelujah, i’ve been healed

especially the one who can walk into

a place that still has books and say,

“yeah i’ve already read that”

 

***