When what I want is to grasp
The words of a dead writer,
In one-half a column torn apart
By my failing strength.

It’s history or fame or a mix of
Stars on the Hollywood sidewalk
That tear up my collector’s zeal,
Not the celebrity of the goal.

You have only to look at one
Page to see a spirit, a substance,
Which shines so brightly, you
Blink and want to cry.

My reading genes are walking
A tightrope, the right brain is
Laps behind its left-hand cousin,
Rebellion devours my senses.

A dash of ****, a dab of prayer
Are in a crystal container at my
Bedside, their warrantee intact,
Pox on paragraphs unseen.

One last look at the print on
The wall, its ancestor apes staring
In defiant glee, **** sapiens
Will not be retrained.

Cognition, behavior, labels for
The weird act of digestion of
Grammar and words and a dose
Of  heart-managed trust.

What I want is to read, to buy,
Not rent, what was promised,
Yet I am a para-genetic freak
Unable to decipher zip.
  
© Lewis Bosworth, 9/2017