In all the smashed cat in the road days of
hungover afternoons, and empty pocket
mornings, one constant wherever I was
were the trips to the library.

I read most everything back then:
Hamsun
Hemingway
Steinbeck
Fitzgerald
Eugene O’Neil, and Gogol,
and always Bukowski.
They were my lighthouse in the
abysmal fog of street life, and the
abscessed ocean of bent dreams.
The greats could always squeeze juice from
the words and I drank them down in
those lonely city libraries.  
It mixed well with the ***** and whiskey.

Some of the libraries had security guards.
Their job was to yell, “No sleeping”, as they
walked by, like witnesses at a hanging.
I dozed in those comfortable chairs,
noon light bathing me in golden peace.
I was a knight, the hero, Thomas, the great.
I hated those ******* for waking me up.
I’d rise and wander around to stay awake.  

Every time,
everywhere,
there she’d be,
my, clean, quiet, well-read, heavenly librarian.
Brown hair in a bun, large glasses, and usually
a silk blouse and tweed skirt, **** as sin.  

I watched her for hours.  I wrote about her,
the way she moved and talked and smelled of
lilies and jasmine.
I made up scenes of wild *** in the
fiction section on top of
Dostoyevsky and Joyce,
Huckleberry Finn and Tropic of Cancer.
Miller and Nin would have blushed.

I pictured her bent over the banister by the
travel book section on the third floor.
I’ve got her skirt hiked up over her ***,
and I’m in Wonderland, El Dorado, and the
Emerald City all rolled into one.
She guided me through suicidal days and made
the wait to become a writer a worthwhile utopia.

I never wrote a piece on Love
I heard it fits us like a glove.
For some it's warm and airy light
for others rough and squeezing tight.
We wish to have it, not a doubt
so much we'd let the genie out.
To relish feeling close and dear
to know there'll be a time we tear.
By either joy, or broken heart,
As both entail a brand-new start.
A home we build as seasons turn,
Of moments past that won't return.
And if your heart is scared to feel,
Embraced by silence, cold and still.
I'll help you light it, make it burn,
A feeling I have had to learn.

If I say jump then you might think,
I found a frog beneath the sink.
but how it got there I don't know,
"it doesn't matter let it go",
It said and quaked it was so loud,
I felt confused and looked around.
The room expands, I'm getting small,
there was a message on the wall.
"Stop reading nonsense, I can tell,
your mind enjoys its little cell".
And you just thought, when I said jump,
those silly things that I made up.
It's all for you, so don't feel bad,
I'm waiting just for you to land.

I am neither here nor there, in
Limbo, my next step postponed
Stranded halfway across the river
I lean down to taste the water
It is full of salt.

Forty nights and forty days
But there is no sign of rain
Or what comes after.

I wonder if I am meant to wait for the ferryman
Or if, when the tide releases me
I’ll walk to Hades myself
Led, trapped
This path the only left open before me.