Library 1
burned down like a popsicle stick log cabin
through bushes of curly hair her fingers ran
asleep with eyes focused on two index fingers
her hair sprayed with seeds and on her breasts
my yellow watermelon digesting supplying nutrients
to our bodies (and the creation of new bodies)
a library full of words on pieces of paper
but no one is reading or writing just thinking
exactly how long till the weekend
don't be reading over my shoulder
the structure of poems can look like a
yellow jacket swatted with a newspaper
just words of a suicidal photojournalist
they walk down the hallway like nuts
screwing onto bolts
the thought of air conditioning coinciding
with a jazz professor bassist
the brilliance of Ira Glass vs. stupid
curly haired girls named Madison
Library 2
The feeling was in the pit of your stomach. Unease. The feeling came in through your senses. The feeling traveled like a stream out of your heart and through your arteries. Usually streams are peaceful, but this was a stream of terror. The people in the library sat quietly reading, but they were equally terrifying. The people who wrote the newspaper; they were terrifying too. Most of the books were arsonists or concrete trucks. Some of the books were paramedics. Some were acquaintances and few were friends. The pillars holding up the building were the parents and the couches and tables were the children. None of the people knew what they wanted to be. Some thought they did, but they didn't. There were blonde girls with asses that hung out of their jean shorts. The elevator was an esophagus and the stairs were lungs. Some words would make the bad things go away. A page can be a portal. But most of the time they were no more important than a fast food taco party pack. Or as worthless as a thousand emotionally involved poems.
Library 3
perfect poetry has no purpose
like purple people are silly
and sillyness is the answer to many questions
stupidity equals sanity and insanity equals normality
sometimes fancy words sound dumb
peoples inner thoughts vs. the wax on the floor
unhappiness vs. the Spanish language
obesity vs. the chill of winter
the theory of painting walls yellow
below average vs. Latina woman holding her breasts
the theory of flip flops after summer
an Asian sound of affirmation
glaring into the unity of silence
a face as beautiful as a nuclear reactor
an awkward gait vs. a fading hair color
the theory of athletic people in gym shorts
having a lot of nerdy friends in order to feel socially superior
saying you don't care probly means you do
nonsense to make you feel better
Library 4
The feeling of terror sat Indian style outside of the library, finishing a 12 pack. The feeling got up, and stumbled towards where it thought it lived, but it had no home. Every night when it slept, the girl it slept next to had scary dreams. She dreamed that the feeling of terror was somebody else and that scared her. The feeling hugged her tighter and told her it was alright.
The feeling of terror loved the girl and wanted her to feel safe around the feeling of terror.
Sometimes the feeling of terror accelerated the feeling of terror when it thought too much. Then it would write inside the library of terror to feel better. Sometimes the feeling of terror would try to distract itself from itself but it never worked. Well, sometimes it worked, but in a very bad way.
Even when the feeling of terror felt happy it was still the feeling of terror. Sometimes it would type the feeling of terror into a word processor. Other times it would write emails of terror to the feeling of terror. But the feeling of terror could never escape the feeling of terror.
Library 5
Homeless people are sleeping in the library. You make many attempts to decipher the students from the homeless. The library seems unusually quiet, maybe because there are so many words that aren't worth reading. Perhaps it is the vast amount of written syllables that makes them silent. No matter what, the words are here to stay and there are more words on the way. All of this information is penning itself at the top of a mountain.
There is no snow here, only tables, chairs, people reading, and stairs with ants on mountains. The clouds outside the library window move like a freight train. There is a blonde girl wearing rain galoshes. When people walk or run, the stairs become drums, especially when the mallets are flip flops. It is strange how so many people can sleep in the library. You find it scary. A boy speaking loudly on a cellphone disturbs the thinkers. You find this rude. The homeless don't mind though. Today the library is hungry because the chairs feel like digestion.
The elevator bells are meant to sound pleasing but they are terrifying. You have a feeling of guilt about adding more words to a collection of words that will never be read. It doesn't make sense. Nothing makes sense. Everyone looks dyslexic. There is great trouble deciphering past from present tense. There is heavy emphasis on the word "decipher" and the chairs. They don't look hungry so you think maybe they are all just acting. When you came to this library, you left your sanity at the front desk. The librarians keep everyones sanity in the closet and you can pick it up when you leave.
The homeless check their watches and go back to sleep. Turning the page is like leaving a funeral. A girl is perched on the balcony and looks down like an eagle. She is joined by another eagle, a much fatter male eagle. As you contemplate peripheral vision the speed of your pen on paper seems alarming. A mouse's handwriting is interesting, especially to birds of prey. The eagles are frightening. You are writing as if your hand is a sprinter running a hundred miles at a sprinter's pace. Or like a thief running from police, pages blurring from sheer meaninglessness. The eagles are looking out the window or into your window. Its terrifying. The spelling is terrifying. The consequences of such meaninglessness are terrifying.
You can hear footsteps but there is an odd lack of heartbeats. There is a search for a word that means "information not contained in the brain," as your pen flows like a waterfall obeying gravity, or an officer ordering a soldier to harm innocent people. You notice every silly backpack and a broad range of female handbags. Strange looks are collected in a bin to be handed out to shy people.
The homeless check their watches as the air conditioning keeps their organs fresh; but the architecture of the building withholds the necessary nutrients to keep the comfy chairs well fed. Your terror fades as you contemplate meaninglessness. You forget about the eagles.You forget all about the satisfied homeless. You stop deciphering. As the words you write become tangible, the thoughts return to your conscience, and you become hungry again. The library is where you bring your screaming children to put them to sleep.
