i'm sitting on an empty shelf
between volumes 782.5n and 783.3
as dust gathers around my cover
& mites nibble my binding
occasionally unknown hands
pull my jacket, scan my contents
then promptly shove me back -
in a world with so many volumes
i'm inconsequential:
a cadaver of cellulose
in a vast intellectual morgue
where millions rest in oblivion
virtually ignored
soon enough
a librarian will examine me
then decide other books are more worthy
of my space
after placing me
in a disposal box
i'll experience
the wisdom of burning
and once again
become part of
the cosmic library
which records every day
|
Ella: This sense of emptiness in this poem
 seems oppresive.
Shu: Most of the oppresion we encounter
is inside the mind.
Jack: No - cut the zen crap.
Can't you see? There's something
genuinely oppresive here.
Ella: One of the reasons this poem stinks is
it is cloaked in self-denial. Curiously,
this is because the author is too identified
with his own written works: it is as if his
whole friggin' ego is wrapped up in those
damn books. If that is the case, I hope
they do rot.
Shu: False refuge.
Ella: The author is also too confident of his
own insignificance. No one really knows
how history will write them. And only
vain people really care.
Jack: Pride can become twisted into self-denial:
it almost has a pious stink.
Juanita: Let's move on and breathe.
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