sterile bookshelves,
smell so visceral,
smell like black and white,
like glamour books,
books of Pamela Anderson's breasts,
sneaking nipples between hot breaths,
while over-the-shoulder associates
cater to order.

full up,
with facts gone unread by American eyes,
eyes like vultures for greed,
faineant, sublime moments,
found in magazine photos,
the lowest moments
of the lowest focus,
a free ride.

the small Guju boy
reminds me of the small Guju life
i never lived
on lentil beans and Desi screeching
nails times tables to my eyelids
until i surrender
this infuperiority complex
that i just made up.

a common thread,
the songs of the Eagles,
not these vultures,
like lumpen satellite dishes
broadcast down,
and i can't scratch a single fiber
that these shelves have in common
with the shelves of my youth or yours.

the words aren't aging,
only like rearranging
soft furniture of the mind,
pushed around by new faces,
another shot of artistry,
a double shot espresso latte choked down,
and the nerves fade,
but the bookshelves still remain.

03/23/2005

Posted on 03/24/2005
Copyright © 2024 Daniel Peterson