The bookshelf

Looking out from behind the bars of sleep
one night I escaped
the incarceration
as dreams patrolled the cellblock
I slipped my way
past unconsciousness
it was very early in the morning
and on my bookshelf there was debating,
cajoling, shouting, comforting, and crying
between the books
some of the books written by women
had the voices of men
and some books written by men
had the voices of little boys
every book had its own opinion
regardless of what the author thought
Tortilla Flat flirted with Pride and Prejudice
Labyrinths and The Brothers Karamazov were engaged
in a screaming match
about the true nature of Christ
the works of Cardenal, Keats, and Cummings
sang the songs of the tavern
while the works of Vallejo and Villon
sat in an uncomfortable silence amongst them
The Flowers of Evil whispered a joke to Auden: Poems
that she was not willing to repeat
to Lunch Poems despite her insistence
The Magic Mountain and Foucault’s Pendulum
proclaimed loudly that they had discovered the cause
of all the wars of the world
Lady Chatterley’s Lover believed them
before they laughed
into his spine
outside of sleep I listened awhile
then I rushed back to dwell in the gulag of blankets
knowing that from now on I must take greater care
when I give the books their neighbors

Smartphone

My smartphone and I have daddy issues,
we discuss them
as I touch his screen. The smartphone
has solved so many of my problems
that I would like to stop this mockery of gigabytes
but I have no app to offer him.
Likewise he has no directions on this highway
where any town could be my birthplace.
The road signs here
remind me of mistakes
20 Miles to your Last Attempted Suicide.
We ask each other what we can do
when cruelty is a download.
Guilt has been dried out in this desert
far from the sea that whispers my name,
its skins tied to fences
blowing in scarred breezes.
I roll down my window
to raise my cellphone up
he searches for a signal but what we really want
is maybe.