In the house I keep

In the house I keep each wall shall be

A coloring book for poetry

Where colors burst in harmony

Where war and peace succumb to paint.

In the house I keep each window sill

Shall only bear the daylight spill

Where succulents hang with free will

Where laughter’s never faint.

In the house I keep each lock will turn

With open ended thoughts to churn

Where no one line deserves to burn

Where honesty is quaint.

But when fear knocks in the house I keep

There will be no reason for which to weep

My hands dipped well within relief

Each wall we’ll finger paint.

In the house I keep my only wish

To deserve and serve this simple dish

Where forks and knives grow strong and rich

Where no wall goes untouched.

shelved next to Shakespeare

How can one be

an open and closed book

all at the same time

he wondered,

licking his thumb

fingering pages

watching his life unfold

like a story shelved

next to Shakespeare.

when Whitman sings

I often hide the cover of the book

I’m reading,

commuting on the subway

or relaxing over coffee,

like anyone would care

either way, because yeah!

What if they did? They don’t.

But what if? And how does one explain

his book of choice, when more than not

the books I read give me no choice! Aha!

They’d label me pretentious, surely they should

but what if they didn’t?

Would I really have time for a friend,

when Whitman sings and celebrates self

Oh! You better believe I butt in.

Freedom, by Jonathan Franzen

Next

to the Bible

in the Dollar Store

I pick up

Freedom, by Jonathan Franzen

tuck it

under my arm

and proceed to the cashier,

handing her a buck

she looks at me warmly

and says,

this is a good one, but

young man, have you read the Holy Bible?

alone, reading quietly

I saw you today,

behind the page of a book you sat

hair tied back in a tight pony,

legs crossed in black leggings

corderoy red dress and bomber jacket.

But I knew better than to say hello.

We’ve been there before, and you

looked like you were doing just fine

sitting alone, reading quietly

commuting to work

or whatever it is you do now.

the polarity between real life and a college town.

I miss my former self.

A chatter-box of complaint.

Endless questions with premature answer.

Horny and mad.

Full of flowery language.

Undefined.

Chain smoking under the gun.

I miss my former self.

Like an old friend.

Like a past lover.

Like a finished book.

Like a sprained ankle.

Like a cavity.

Like film.

I miss my former self.

Arrogant.

Brooding.

Self-deluded.

Know-it-all.

Audacious.

Jerk.

I miss my former self.

Like turning 13.

Like watching Fox and Friends.

Like a one night stand.

Like romanticism.

Defined.

No longer smoking, still under the gun.

It’s the polarity between real life and a college town.