I like the classics.
King Lear and Milton\'s Paradise
Where corrupting the soul
And confusing the mind
Offer respite for the land
And the huddling weary
Can\'t say I\'ve read many of them
Pride and Prejudice
Ulysses and Little Women
The thick novels dustily
Mumble alongside advertisements
And the telephone book keeping
My rickety Cassio level.
I\'ve opened them, sure
Once in an azure moon
When the time prickles
The insides of my eyelids
And the lust for escape
Overcomes the comfort of rest
But I do not call myself a literacist.
I read the headlines and reviews
And meander past the Gwinnett County Library
Every Friday evening
As I wander towards the dark apartment
That rests quietly in a tomb of her sisters.
Maybe one day I\'ll finish the list
Growing heavier and brittle
With each shakily scratched name
Permanently dyed into its skin
As if the promise of action
Implies the purity of effort.
But I know better.
The fantasies of the world traveler
Do not compare to the bite of a crisp apple cider
That costs just as much
As one of those poor, misled stories.
And we\'d all be better off
If instead of downloading torrents of saccharine
At the cry of one,
We would soldier forward into the tack of paper,
Armed with pen and ink,
And remember.
For what better service may a man have
Than facing fearful odds
For the ashes of his father
And the temples of his gods.