i tend to kiss books, before i open them...

and i'm sure those words are enough,
but then there's always'shakespeare's
macbeth* to kiss, with and upon
every word read, uttered,
or thought of, within the confines
of the designated composition...

those three years in scotland:
are no pity...
   but a herald for what could become
dante's underworld...
   with bagpipe sung,
stormy and jokingly entombed,
half of which was a word danced,
and half of which was a word unsaid;

to pity, to cry, to remember: is to die.

the thane of cawdor lives!
why do you dress me in borrow'd robes?!

and if the koran be so noble,
where are those who kiss that "noble" effort
prior to recitation?
   i have heard no talk of kissing
a book before it being read...
             as i might
kiss and open a cassell & co. ltd.
of shakespeare...
to kiss a book, and with eyes closed,
imagine it an anchor,
                is to levitate,
is to swim among sharks,
   its to find buoyancy akin to einstein
finding the space-time dip in
the earth bound to the "liquid"
of a vacuum...

i enclose my spirit to
the enclosure of a shadow that
burdens the sun from ever challenging
a presense, in the confines
of the last remaining abode of romance,
that is edinburgh...
may my soul rest there,
while watching the sunrise
and the elongation of shadows
from the cranium of arthur's seat;

oh the most loving, are places,
where we once were,
where we wished to belong,
but belong only in the longing,
to erase the once lived,
now remembered:
     toils of a death wish
that only comes with a sigma mort...
it is one thing for man to
be alive,
but another for a man of youth
to awaken an old man
in a deceptive attire of joking flesh...
and say:
   to memory of gravitas' worth of
a son, and a son of a son,
   i count these finite observations
their adequate culmination,
that odd and hardly practised gesture
of kissing books,
prior to opening them,
        and thus delving into
    the hardships of every future's unknown
   come apparent, now.