I am told I should tell you things not in books
It is hard for me to begin
Your mother said only what is in the book I know
I think my dilemma is neither you nor I
But the whole purpose of the book
This letter may turn into if I try to understand me.
And if I am not in the picture
Then your existence becomes questionable. We must
Establish our need for more than mere presence
And this makes us listening to each other significant,
Make this letter existentially important
And you significantly more important than either of us think
I do not read books because I believe all books
Books took a wrong turn just by their necessity to speak
And to make speech more permanent than memory
They disrupted a whole tradition of history to write
What we were, and are becoming
By making picture out of words for reflection
As they tell us who we are
Without beat of tongue, and rhythm of gesticulation
That surrounded the melody of oral communication.
The literary man made an ulterior civilization
Telling us with barbed cynicism: the pen is mightier than the sword
I handled all books carefully like a weapon
For in them are seeds of destruction
Not intended alone for our history
But for the civilization of our identity.
My dear son
Every structure and fiber of our imagination
Is no longer about us
For we have been reduced to incongruous metaphors
Supplanting faith in history
Supplanting us with toxic ideas of utopia
Knowing full well for this dream
There is no remembrance after sleep
For waking is an hypnosis for those in too deep.
Even as I proclaim this preamble on clutches.