Books

Books climb up walls from the floor to the ceiling of the room breathing pages of spider stories and shadows of waterfalls climbing up mountains from the ground where rivers move away from where the waterfall has anchored itself to the ground with roots that grow away from the sky deep into earth hands stretched out reaching for the heart of all the planets: Saturn and Uranus and the heart of Saturday night where Mr. T waits and sings his songs after speaking and breathing his words in a raspy voice almost a froggy croak groggy eyed waking out of bed for the morning in a room that smells of a new coat of paint like nail enamel and tips or new markers breaking guitar strings that spring winding up clocks making hands move, moving time forward, moving morning to noon to evening to night and then soon it’s the next day – morning again to noon again to evening again to night again and then new songs begin after three minutes and seventy-three seconds of inactivity of speeding rockets rushing flying towards bull’s eyes with eggs of chicken that refused to hatch – the eggs, not the chicken and language, order of words – all funny, meaning something else meant to mean something with all the best intentions made clear to everyone when see-through plastic-skinned bags make it clear to everyone who wishes to read the book from cover to cover, reading, chewing, assimilating every word written loud and clear, clearly visible or otherwise, unwritten, yet loud and clear, almost invisible and what would tricycle riding geese do when they buy a new book at the bookstore at the end of the street around the corner?