Fitzroy Callendar spent the night
in the village of the treetops
as dime novel blondes
blot their make-up with kitchen knives.

You had referenced the young wolves
and Maza of the moon
as your favorite works,
yet I was so quick to defend
Jules Verne and Burroughs like an alarmed prison guard.

We sat and studied the book covers
and you asked me why these things
no longer matter.
I replied, they do, oh how they do.

It was my eyes not the answer
that gave away my feelings.
I felt myself inside
a sci-fi plot I couldn't unfuck.

The story lines of severals works
flew back into vivid memory.

The murderer was on the jury in
Let them go hang,
and her angular pose left me wishing I had the
the superweapons of The wandering Tellurian.

Panicking I felt like
The hunter out of time
as she referenced The naked jungle
and Ring around a rogue, I slipped into deliriums of desire.

She smirked then,
a pause in her pattern.
We slid into one on the table of books
and they began to multiply around our bodies.

The room filled with the greats,
Tarzan and the lion men, Not as evil as Eve,
Lie like a lady, the works.
Her thighs riddled with paper-cuts and ink stains she melted me.

The room grew still,
the floating papers had settled to the floor.
When the dust began to grow,
one book ascended to the top of the pile.

It's title, Our night in the library,
with cover art of two lovers,
half human, half illustration,
reading quietly in opposite corners of the room.

04/12/2013