Poetry Month Special 
My home is a Dantean inferno of books crying
in despair because their covers are closed
their spines resting still on shelves
their words unspoken to eyeballs
for many long years. Viewed once
then placed aside, many marked
at the point of intended return
grow old and dusty waiting;
Their screams a cry of Satanic
unfolding though all I hope
are dry enough to avoid molding
though many molded the mind
that now carries me around–
some still screaming, some
still whispers, some forgotten
but still around, just in case
I was wrong in my reading
the first time.
Who can say which few words
may have been just as well left out
or ignored, skimmed over
and which even after dozens of readings
awaits another viewing soon. Who
may know at one moment suddenly
the occasion may arise
to refer to one of the hundreds
standing by at the ready like
home guards with polished rifles
always only a call from the governor away
from being loosed to rescue some
or another ignorance.
They cry for their kin left behind
at garage sales for lack of a quarter
for compadres left behind after
the library book sale is over
at a dollar a bag
for black barred remainders
peddled cheaper than dirt
at the dollar store
they lament the fate of contemporaries
that gather dust for years
on new book store shelves
for those comrades buried
in the catacombs of Powell’s
awaiting the stone to roll away
and awaken them.
Wail for volumes
gobsmacked into stacks
at libraries that have not
burned them as a waste of space.
Raise wails of lamentations
for dumpsters full delivered
to landfills, buried as food
for worms—book worms
come into their own
replaced by relentless flow
of ones and zeros
flickering skeletons
or former selves
on screens.
I would like to rescue them all
but I know their cries
will never go away
at least as long as I am here to hear.
