Circulation at my library is way up
since I got my own live feed.
People stream me
during their lunch breaks and on the morning train.
I get real sexy with the books,
opening the covers,
working the hinges,
leafing through the pages.
I wrap my tongue around
penthouse words
like loquacious and perambulate
and fomentation,
fantasy words like naughty
and Lilliputian, ribaldry and nascence.
My fans come into the library
for a first row seat to my live act,
an Odyssean recitation of phonemes:
muff, puff, moist, hoist,
straddle, paddle, cream, dream,
bramble, scramble,
silky, milky, slick, slit,
meat, mean, sip, sin.
Afterwards they stick around,
sweaty and shaky, hoping to hear
me say syllogism or overdue
or to get a special sneak peak of me
shelf reading in the stacks
or pushing a book truck
loaded with graphic novels.
If they’re real lucky
I’ll tell them to shush,
whisper hot and quiet in their ears,
let them pay their fines
in singles,
slip the bills
underneath dust jackets,
let a wandering finger slide
along the uncut edge of
A Brave New World.


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