Not a Poem But a Library

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a shrink of thousands words to explain who I am not in need

as the pile of books was never opened send to me by my mentor who died resently

all about poetry but I want my own voice and so that is why I rarely read unless I feel

obliged

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

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