Enchanted by the contents of wastebaskets,
A soul, like an animal, can easily escape words.
But words can disfigure the face of a goddess
That has managed to survive even a summer sky.
Books are the bricks of monstrosity.
Sometimes they are life itself.
I know it’s hard to believe but one of your neighbors
Left 728 handmade books of poetry
Buried in the nearby grove.
One of them is dedicated to her enemies
And begins with the sentence:
We never know who our real enemies are.
She passed away last September being 334 years old,
Although she looked like she was 62.
She believed that somehow she managed to pick up
Long unsound messages from Lemurian monsters,
And she reproduced them as much as she could
In her latest books. Criminals,
Riffraff and popcorn vendors used to love her.
The sound of a broom sweeping
The sky, of eyeglasses
Breaking under sparse raindrops.
Should we protect ourselves?
Should we run away from the highways?
Let’s build a house of the books
Written by idiots. Let the gods throw
Swollen meaningless words at us.
It’s Man-Root #2 (January 1970); the inscription was allegedly made by Lynn Strongin, who is the author of the poem as well.
I wonder if this copy really belonged to Anaïs Nin or it is just someone’s prank.
Librarians follow the cracks
in the walls, gaps in the
restroom water, long aisles and
hair and aspirin under decrepit
chairs, drab spirits of the
lost generation almost
sacrificed to Tezcatlipoca
or the grasshopper
goddess of the Anasazi.
Memory is an abstraction,
children smell the pages and
can do everything afterwards,
everything while the void
shines in their hearts.