The Selected Poems of Whoever

They caught me in the library— Reading the selected poems of, Whoever. When this day ends, I feel as if someone lit a match Inside my mouth. When I walk down the aisles of books Warped with titles by authors Of obscure names My fingers grasp complacently The worn bindings And I breath deep the toxic must Of 300 years in a basement, Maybe less. The origin of pages promulgates the pasture(s) Of my dreams, the dream of dreams, and The dream of stars in the heavens of the other planets, Not like this one Where the cage of my figure must reside. I don’t care about edits— Instantaneous insanity is better. I don’t care about raves I’ll rave about a bad hair day Before I listen to a pseudo-happy-rave Of a wannabe pilgrim A shrieking raven is more fascinating.