Used Books

I ran to the door.

As though, I were a guest in my own home.

There had been a line up of years.

There had been much discernment.

A vast exhibition of word from dog-eared tears.


From space and time.

From a science undefined.

Nothing could abate my thirst.

No slang or vetted vista…

The stained sentence had been the first.


The newborn in my century old feet came rushing toward the porch.

A past portfolio of used books…read, heard…not always learned.

Still I smiled inside and out.

Smirked and thanked a bewildered stranger.

Who offered only expressions that were blank.


Thus, amid sentences, no one cannot truly confide.

I now sit…

No longer perplexed.

No longer ignorant to that I have not seen yet.

Awaiting chapters, used not broken.

Holding on by tooth and nail to a fictional sentence.

And, other words that will not be spoken.

On the Road with Devotion

…the only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones who never yawn or say a commonplace thing, but burn, burn, burn like fabulous yellow roman candles exploding like spiders across the stars…      Jack Kerouac



The yellowed pages had been many places before.

Just as I have.

In truth, the book had been many places more.

From candlestick to wrinkles in time on the road.

Fabled lines where dreamers who dream can go.


in numerous ways,

an outlet for the abused to avoid the scold.

Everything between leather and lace.

Recollections of wonderful sin…

Where the journey begins.


the ecstasy of paper-thin pulp.

A library amassed with the texture of worn wafer.

An effortless phrase would slay a demon.

Chapters bound with heroic souls who made us safer.

Smoked stained pages absorbing all our childhood fears…

All our childhood wages.

“Happiness consists in realizing it is all a great strange dream”
“Happiness consists in realizing it is all a great strange dream”