No Room For People Without Pages

I’ve been so productive lately as far as creative endeavors go. I’d pat myself on the back, but I usually pat my own back with my left hand and that one is stuck in a stupid stupid dumb uncool loser weirdo stupid brace and sling. Poems, blog posts, napkin monsters at the diner- all kinds of masterpieces happening around here. Also, as much as I’d rather not admit this, I wouldn’t be reading and writing so much if I hadn’t broken my elbow….so I guess I have to admit another silver lining (there are a surprising number when you look for them).

I get very emotional about my book collection. As I’ve mentioned before , they are dear to my heart. I must have somewhere between 500-700 books that I have read or intent to read one day. Combine this longstanding affection with the medieval phase I’m going through right now (history, poetry, inspired fiction), and you get a love poem.  I’ve hyperlinked to certain references, although I worry that this makes it seem like there is one single “interpretation” or “meaning” for each phrase, which is not true. Please leave a comment and let me know what you think (good or bad)!

A portion of my book addiction.

No Room For People Without Pages

I live in a small rented space that extends
into canyons, up mountains, under bridges-
some with trolls and some without.

I sleep on an average sized mattress
on the floor of a basement room that opens onto
magical worlds filled with braver men,
stronger women, and the great wars between the entirely evil
and the truly good.

Everyday I get up at eight,
leave for work at quarter till nine,
eat lunch at noon,

get home in time to catch the a
Viking  raiding party out of my kitchen.

After dinner I mosey through
castles, prison cells, battle fields,
log cabins, tents, fields under the starry skies
wherever I might run into a great mind
grinding down the countless weary days
into masterpieces of savage insight
and tiny, mesmerizing pearls of truth
that will likely be buried in some field.

I follow them around so that every morning
when I wake up I can go straight to the spot
and pick up the pearls to wear around my neck
when I dance in my small backyard dance
right over a chain link fence that isn’t quite tall enough
to keep me out of Valinor, Olympus, or Valhalla.

There’s not a great deal of extra space in my home
barely enough for a visiting face to feel comfortable.
I try to be hospitable, but the honest truth is that
my home is full of books.
There’s no room for people without pages.

Another clue?

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