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.

Nursing cracked paper backs and dusty reference works,
Softly uttered beauty,
Topped by brown bun glows in alabaster skin,
Bespectacled,
She whispers,
Quiet please.

Words slip through fingers,
Stretched,
In constrained eroticism,
A country woman in tweed.

Her passing stamp,
Over a pristine white sheet,
beckoning,
“return”.

Reading her unspoken words,
A chapter opens,
I succumb to her prose,
Love,
I suppose.

When I grow up I want to be a librarian.

There was once a stingy, little toad
with fire upon its head,
a shrilly voice of ignorance
that left annoyance in its stead.

The rules it made were silly
and gave good reason to rebel.
It wouldn't let the others speak.
Why? No one could tell.

Its disconnect was obvious
when treating toads like flies.
And all pretended to do what told
until it turned its eyes.

It sits upon its lily pad
as if better than the rest--
unaware that the other toads
are, frankly, sick to death.

Here am I,
Lurking, waiting for you,
I see your face,
In every dream,
I almost love you,
Or so it seems.

I see you walk in,
And I take my chance,
I take you away,
So that we may dance,
I draw you in,
Among the stacks,
Take you so far,
that you won't come back.

With my temptress words,
I draw you in,
Because what I want,
Is lips on skin.
Slowly, sweetly,
You read me like a book,
And if you don't stop,
You'll be hooked.