A sad man sits in front of me in the library
He seems generic;
A used sketchbook, modern glasses, and a Banksy sticker on his MacBook.
His arms are filled with marks
black ink solemnly attempts to cover up what is underneath
But they are beautiful
An abstraction of two people kissing, entwined like the style of the art
Further up is his star sign;
Honest, courageous, passionate
Impatient, impulsive, intrusive
I don’t know if this is him;
All I know is his art, encompassing his every stroke
His left arm has a different mark
What happened to you?
holy jesus, dude
you made eye contact with me
thanks for that, now i feel awkward as shit
oh fuck, I've just realized that my family will burst in here soon
I'm embarrassed already just thinking about it
there are so many other computers and you chose
to sit directly next to me, thanks so much for that
oh god are these keys too loud
am i clicking too loudly
holy shit did my stomach growl loudly
oh god i can't even think about chewing my tasteless gum
the walls are closing in
and there are some cute guys, or at the very least,
but i sit here and panic as i always end up doing
because even though I'm medicated for depression
and even ocd,
nothing says anxiety medicine like good old-fashioned
talking, am i right?
Tell me, are you a library, full of stories?
Are you a collection of fiction and fact that no arms could contain or no minds that could grasp?
I look into your eyes and I get a glimpse of the catalogs and genres which you keep within you.
You must have had your fair share of history; that is one textbook I want to study and memorize by heart.
Do you think I can be the one to take care of you?
I want to keep you a classic and as a monument in this era of advancing technology.
I will clear the dusty parts of your heart and wipe the slippery surface of your crying face.
I will caress every page you own and help restore the words you've been trying to preserve.
I may not be the one who found you first but I will be the one to stay by your side, until the day either of us crumbles.
So let me check your books out and let me return to you so very often.
Let me call you my favorite place and my second home.
Ostentation is not for me.
In the morning,
I generally put on a ring and a pendant,
Usually from a Pow-Wow or the Tibetan Shop.
Jewelry just feels protective to me.
It helps one feel more organized,
And it frames my face.
I'm using the public access computer
At the Central Branch of the Denver Public Library at the moment,
While listening to Tanya Tagaq's "Retribution" recording
On my Mp3 player
The upcoming Ecoapocalyse
Is on my mind
I'm have no reason to prove
That I'm superior
To anyone else.
Than anyone else here.
My heart was given and never returned
Like a lost library book
An empty self-resides between my ribs
False hope is all you are able to give to me
I know now that love … asks… waits... reciprocates
Does not force its will or decisions
And no matter how good your intentions were
You judged the content of my soul by misread cliff notes
You were my brilliant ending or at least I hoped
You wrote an empty I love you and I let you
Tattoo that lie inside me
Scar me with your ink
My worn and mangled book jacket skin
Only shows that I have lived
been willing to forgive
those who left my spine loose
left my pages wrinkled and dog eared
and despite it all I survive your love or lack there of
believe me I will preserve
I may not be easy to digest
Only appreciated by the true enthusiast
Because of the Dichotomy that coexists in me is truly miraculous
And that is to say I am beginning to see my own beauty
Worth more than the barcode the world stamped me with
My words are more than entertainment
My secrets buried between the black lettered print
I am as unique as the fingerprints you stained me with
Before you left my heart to collect dust
And now I know your promises should be categorized under fiction
But I will finish the chapter with a new perpective
I heard your using your library card again
I hope she is a good book to curl up with
One that you that you can quote to your friends
I see you becoming an author
writing the story of your life with beautiful ending
More than just a happy beginning that ends in misery
Like the one you had with me
I will wait for my time with someone who can love flaws
One my character can develop with
A love so strong it reinforces the binding of my pages
And I’m finding that I have to return myself to the self
let go and turn the page
to be open to the love of someone else
Look -- O’ look
The books we could be;
Seas of lumber
Slumber in dusty sleeves.
Thieves of the night
Write on our eyes;
Lies in the form of words,
Worlds in forms of home.
Some call it fiction,
Imagination calls it sanity
Gravity of our own two feet
Meet to stay alive.
“Strive” it tells me.
“Be all that you can and more.
Doors lead to windows,
Intros to the Galaxy.
Actually living more lives than one.
Undo the restrictions-
Dictions people have over you.
Few are even close
Most will never get there.
Here there is only you
Through the woods behind the books
Consider for a moment
the Great Library of Alexandria,
a wonder of the ancient world
a pinnacle of human achievement,
a locus of human knowledge,
what with its endless papyrus scrolls
and torch-lit hallways
and hunched, bearded, sagacious men.
Consider now whether or not it
only contained about eighty gigabytes of data.
Consider the thousands of Bible apps
(most of them free)
that are available for download onto your phone.
Consider the different translations that are available
at your fingertips,
each telling a divergent story,
each version of the messiah slightly different
in terms of humanity,
and all of this distilled
into a single, trivial
press of a handheld device.
Consider yourself as you lie in bed
in the dark
trying to pray to God,
but too distracted by the fact
that a text message you sent earlier
never got a reply.
I can only see the outlines of your neck,
And your fingers twisting your moustache,
from in between the shelves,
In the library, I ought to read,
I ought to concentrate, instead,
I lose my thoughts, myself,
I feel my self-control crash,
and drift to a daydream, Oh Heck!
An hour I spent, trying
Not to write, about you,
An hour I spent, crying
Internally at separating, from you,
An hour I spent, lying
to myself of no longer caring, for you.
A week I spent, hoping
That my leaving will induce
You to like me, forgetting
the reality in your thoughts, of my place.
I look out the window,
Sun shining, bright sky,
Yet a leaf withers,
Brown, sucked dry,
Can it be a fault to let it symbolize,
of our vague friendship and its impending demise?