Monday, December 3, 2007

She Reads Books

She reads books about things that can never be understood
Books that explain explanations, words that explore explorations, and debates that debate deliberations
As if the imaginary god of literation would burst from the pages in a robe made from the conjugation of imitated truths and the skins of misunderstood youths, shine his heavenly light on the book and say "here, you missed this line like all of your other peers, now you can be the only one among the thousands that have read this text to fully comprehend this asinine bullshit"
Her bookshelf is filled with spines that have titles as vague as the contents, the authors names get butchered when I try to pronounce them, yet she lets them roll off her tongue like a water slide in the mid afternoon heat, refreshing, and as light hearted as the fair haired children that lunge down its inner spiral
And she's so mindful of every reference that she plucks from her paid education
Having an intellectual conversation on a subject of her choice is like having a three hour pillow fight with a younger sibling, its all good and fun for awhile, but at some point both of you get pissed off and just start swinging as hard as you can at each other's faces
But her words hold no weigh, her weapons have no real impact, her attacks are made with one step forward and two steps back
Until her debate is so distant that she can listen to the echo of her own voice until she feels satisfied with the amount of noise and finally shuts the fuck up
She slithers through sentences until her tongue forks and ties itself into a knot, words trip out of her mouth and quickly crawl back in once they realize how foolish they've become
I've been involved in her double talk so many times that I've been tempted to end her with a knife if only it wouldn't require an illustrated diagram to show her how to die
My words would get spent till lungs dry up and spit dust when a gust pulls them up and spells out the words "I give up"
Cause her books have pages like mirrors that reflect themselves on to the reader till she knows as much about herself as the writer knows about his topic
Then the only definitive statements she can make anymore is how much she loves her cat, and how she's afraid she's getting fat, or all the places she WON'T eat at, or how she doesn't like when I point out her indecisiveness LIKE THAT
I don't know why she reads those books
Just like how she doesn't know why I keep writing poetry about her
But she reads books about things that can never be understood
And I write poetry about things that can never be understood