Not a Poem But a Library

I look at a pile of books bringing the memories of my past libraries as a child only comics from the kid next door that I will cut and paste to make my own adventures the paste made of flour and water strong enough to fly a kite on windy days the schtroumph preserved in a school book for me to see in later years by his mother never read a story by my mom she will sing to me as I watched her knit removed on a farm in later times I opened an armoire to open a book and discover the pleasure of words and begged my uncle on a visit to buy me more going to the village next to the hamlet I chose my first book la guerre du feu and so it goes back in the projects of Paris the serie noir of my mother bringing me to crimes murder and deceptions was a lot of fun as my sister trash magazines will nourish me with lush exile to America with no english i was back to the comics on Bleeker street the freak brothers a dream with the frieze at the bottom telling the story of opening a bathroom door for the critter to disappear and a first joint putting my hands on short stories I read them all and went for more my biggest library is making our noises hiding behind the lions as we put our bicycle at rest at the bottom of the stairs on a dark night and the rest is my own to tell as words become nonsense as the manes have nothing to do with books but the lions roar if you learn nothing