The poetry section is small and somewhat hidden Bukowski still floods the shelves Baudelaire’s flowers still in bloom eternity lives here pressed between the pages taken into our lungs and released in every word
lucky for us the dead write remarkably well considering the are either ash or dry bones names long ago engraved into stone printed along the spine of new books and why should death stop anyone from writing it makes life more bearable for the living and more hopeful for the dying
at least sometimes it does
books, poems, fairy songs somewhere to escape something to escape with
a sketch pad or journal isn’t official until it has a stain of some type a ring left behind from a cup or mug or bottle a splash of this or that
we tend to admire the dead more than the living as if living is something we just need to survive as we wait our turn in line to grow old to become useless to reach the wastebasket that we can dump our dreams into to let go of the burden of hope and just settle into our caskets our coffins and wait for sleep to become death
and that wait is made easier by the dead who still write as most of the living seem to have forgotten the color of their dreams and what they had to live for
I can barely remember there was something though some dream that feels a lifetime ago or a lifetime away
maybe I could remember if I could just sleep through waking up and wake up while still dreaming
maybe I could read some more Bukowski while walking through Baudelaire’s flower lost somewhere in a bookstore found between the lines of eternity