Literature. Library. Books.

"Literature" is like a very sensuous and beautiful woman who turns me on every single time I think or talk about it (her). I don't consider "literature" to be merely a subject of study. It is a living thing for me, warm and affectionate, and I find peace in her. I talk to her, I feel her, I sniff her through the old books in the old silent library. This library with books on literature is very quite and calm in her composure. Yet, she talks back as I read her. She speaks out loud. It's wonderful to be with her. It's soothing. Time stops. All I want to do is pick out the old books, sit and read them one by one, line by line, word by word, letter by letter. I wanna absorb all that they have into myself. They complete my being.

Write

My hand doth itch
and moves along
with heart that
speaks lines long.

I try and ignore
the words of heart,
they, bursting out,
are falling apart.

I ought to rush
to push them back
or write them out
on empty pad.

So I reach out far
to catch my pen
and hold it out
as do wise men.

My Wall

Well, then,
all of a sudden,
one fine day,
it occurred to may (me)
to put whatever
I got in color
on a public wall
to see for all,
and that's how
I'm here, now,
and you see the wall?
Keep looking, bird!
Welcome to my world!