A thick spine of brown
edges of gold
stories passed down
forever re-told.
The book looked at me
and I looked back
wondering who would read
something like that
Now the thick book
sits in my room
it tells me the secrets
of stories once doomed
Snow white's evil witch
was tortured to death
dancing over coals
until her last breath
Red riding hoods ferocity
was never shown
the wolf's stomach cut open
and by her filed with stones
Why don't they tell these?
I do not know
but next time a book seems to whisper
please, listen close.

Your ashes don't speak to me Dad;
they float silent in the ocean.
I need you.
I have questions about
Don Quixote and Steinbeck.
You implanted in me a
love for literature,
and then left me before
the story was supposed to end.

What is the theme?
This plot *****!
I inherited your anger.
I think of you when
I punch the wall and
scream at my wife-
spider web windshields.

I cry through Man of La Mancha,
and laugh at the memory of the
stage you built us in the basement.
Who does that?
Props and scripts were our toys.
I acted and lied my way through my
first two marriages- always on.

You were the great director;
all your trophies are on the mantle.
You thought the pizza place turned
the volume down on the T.V when
your speaking parts came on.

I think you passed me your insanity.
I've been to the nuthouse many times.
I'm a poet Dad, two books published.
I still remember you reading
Kipling and Cummings to me.

In third grade, I read from
Of Mice and Men to my class.
The teacher scolded me for
saying, "Jesus Christ' and "*******."
What a peasant!
She missed the bigger picture;
life doesn't go as planned.

Nagbaga nga kalayo sa atong kabatan-onan.
'di mapalong kon agi-an man sa mug-ot nga panganod ug uwan,
sama sa usa ka punoan nga aduna'y gibarugan,
'di matarug ug matangtang bisag kapila mo pang tayhupan.

Longing for the kiss of bitter reality,

Much of bare humane nature has been deprived of mentality.

Though the holy reputation,

The Anglican halls fill with the souls of the unwanted and unloved.

Much atonement to be done,

All in the name of Himself.

Said a few prayers amidst this deadly nightshade,

filled with poison,

But blessed with beauty and rage.

Shaking the wings of their terrible youth,

we strayed from the heavens above.

Mistaking pain for love,

masochists,

with the love for such *******,

all alone in our dark paradise.

Whilst we knew that the “happy ending” that love promised

is likely to never be fulfilled,

We went in search of the rich wine that intoxicates us,

the empty pitcher.

After searching for our angel for decades, we finally

stumbled upon him,

He helped us to unfurl our wings and guided us, the devils,

to soar high into the heavens in ourselves,

Constantly reminding us,

that the devil,

was once an angel too.

i miss reading and the enjoyment that stemmed from seeing the world through other people's words
the library used to be my favorite place and books were my sole escape but lately i can't bring myself to read
it's as if all those years never lifting my nose from a book is catching up with me and i don't know how to slow down and fix it

i have a list of books i would like to read or that other people would like me to read
and i feel guilty everytime i look at it
it'd be great if i read something off it but im scared it won't feel the same as it did when I needed an escape from reality
feels stulid when i say it out loud but when i was a kid i needed books and the worlds they provided
and now not so much

it's not like the love i had for literature has just disappeared i know it's still there
it's just stored away for a rainy day when my brain again fails to process the fast paced world around me and reality again becomes suffocating

until then I'll try to write my own stories onto blue lines and blank screens and hope that's enough to keep myself from falling into dark times
I'll write stories real and fake to remind myself it's okay to take up space and live in the real world

Reading at the bar
Drinking at the library
         —Henry Chinaski

We look at the world once, in childhood.
The rest is memory.