My bookshelves are filled with Brautigan to Gwendolyn Brooks, Audre Lorde to Flannery O’Connor.
When I’m asleep, my books venture out into the world.
They sneak into other people’s homes, trade amongst one another—a Jim Carroll for an Anne Waldman, a Joy Harjo for a Juan Felipe Herrera.
Some books run off on their own: Bob Kaufman stays out all night, composes love poetry to the cosmos. Bukowski visits his old Hollywood place on DeLongpre, cracks open a beer, sits by the window, watches all the women walk by.
Patti Smith and Rimbaud wander downtown streets, creating the dreamiest of mandalas from memories, while Claudia Rankine and Wanda Coleman don’t take any crap from the cops.
Come morning, most of my books are back on their shelves, along with a few new ones.
Some have additional pages dogeared, and their spines are a little rougher for the wear.
Still, they’re all quite readable and have many new stories to share.
RichRant 