the art of reading: the art of being selective.

i was never compelled with a need
to write, unlike some people: who are -
i never found myself fathoming
an impetus to write,  
      i never succumbed to such a desire,
what happened is past me,
for i'm already infused in the medium
beyond being redeemed from escaping
it: perhaps there's an inkling as to
why i chose to write, "sparingly":
i grew too much respect to *ars lego:
the art of selectivity, of reading -
of nurturing a spirit that had the capacity
to lecture, but one that: never bowed
before a chance to lecture?
          i could never undertake a novelist's
levelling of the reader's plateau,
i had too much respect for the reader
already, to allow discouraging him...
as i find that: most novelists have lost
the ability to read, to, read...
                 flaccid buggers of the deep...
writing a book seems less
importune than reading one,
   on the basis of their, supposedly,
excited vocab.
                      i have managed to be
humbled in my expenditure of words -
i respect reading more than writing,
which is why i settled on poetry -
however un-technical, and all the more:
ancient, with the prime component being
narrative...
             21st century is not about
Priam, or Paris, or Achilles nor Hector,
excuse me,
       ensuring we're fluctuating in
history without a clear logic of whether
it's on repeat: or grasped toward the gains
of so much or so little years passed...
that's beside me...
just today i watched the film lawrence of
arabia and i'm bound to the thought
of: how did the people in the 1960s
sit through a 3h film?!
             i couldn't!
i have to reiterate for my own sake
of knowing the truth:
i cannot, write a novel,
   for the simple reason that,
novelists do not respect novels,
when i cite fiction, they cite , friction...
i respect the reader before i
acknowledge the writer...
  and for this reason,
i am cursed into writing poetry...
               but this statement is more
self-reflecting / revealing than i thought
was possible to achieve...
         i'm not exactly pupaphobic,
only that i'm clauro...
                    mind you,
this whole afternoon minding lawrence:
in the distance,
  the form of man, and horse,
appeared molten...
                 the shadow resonated
beyond an actual body,
the land seemed to be evaporating,
   striking to release a sindwinder's
take on traversing the desert plain,
     forms in the distance looked
liquidated, even though the land was
a carcass of stillness...
the forms molten in animation,
    felt sullen, in liquidated form,
upon a barren plateau...
         water looked evaporating
from ever crackling crevice -
           a grand, oratory:
                                        fata morgana.
- but at least i came to realise
why i was never to be a novelist,
only a "poet":
    i read more than a novelist allows
to have read: to become a novelist;
nonetheless i am thankful for having
achieved this balance of
inquiry and introduction into
expressing my own, work.