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,
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.