To quote Samuel Menashe,
Using the window ledge
As a shelf for books
Does them good --
Bindings are belts
To be undone,
Let the wind come --
Hard covers melt,
Welcome the sun --
An airing is enough
To spring the lines
Which type confines,
But for pages uncut
Rain is a must.
I believe in the Living Book! In dialogue begatin' dialogue! In the pulverized powder of lost civilizations plushed with a brush upon our cheeks while we gossip!This is not to say I don't believe in our current civilization or view it through the lens of being futurely lost -- like thinking of the old Pennsylvania Station now buried in the Meadowlands which will be sunk forgotten beneath a brackish sea between the cliffs of Kearny and the Bloomberg Dikes -- or in dialogue not begatin' dialogue: when this Rebecca I've just met ends the word she earns it and I am left locked in a stare that might create babies if I don't watch myself (according to her).
I embarress! because you heard the breath I held in when I bit my tongue when I said "I digress" holding back a long winded rebuttal that digression is it man, it! I believe the party that ensued in Cairo the week after the library in Alexandria burnt down brought decadence to grand heights whose counter balance begged for the coming crack of Mohommed's sword. Did you know they heated the public baths with the burning books? I swear. I even wrote a poem about it:
I smoked a hookah with you
While we watched the library burn down
The blaze illuminated your face
As every word burnt into space
Then with two tongs of tusk
I plucked an ember from our tin and threw it in
'Specting to add aroma to the cackling crackle of the din
When the pigs came along and locked me up for starting the whole thing!
In a day and a half I was back out on the streets.
Did I cop a plea for my release
When I took credit for the feats?
I believe that my books will burn, that this computer will crash, that all the king's horses and all the king's men will rebuild cities unbeknownst atop the old ones and fall in love with girls who woo them with mythical tales of America and Granada and even Edgar Cayce won't be able to
conjur the preancient Egyptian secrets. No biggy, we'll get them this go around before they burn again. Americans! Don't you know the real reason Canadians hate us is because there are six thousand year old Minoan-Cypriot copper mines on
Wisconson's Isle Royale and St. Louis sits on Cohokia mounds that paved the way for
the Mayan pyramids?
Bread basket of the world?
I digress into things I don't even believe!
Which is only to say that these strokes they grow wider!
So here is the postscript to 57 Octaves which is not included with the book.
There will either come a day when this Introduction to the Postscript and the actual Postscript to 57 Octaves exist around a book that has been burnt or a book that exists in the middle of a conversation (the conversation beginning with the Introduction to the Postscript and ending with the actual Postscript) that has already crashed and I'm telling you regardless of order of collapse the missing words will be felt, then heard, and finally understood because I believe in the Living Book! In dialogue begatin' dialogue! and in the pulverized powder of lost civilizations caked in my scalp weeks after I've left the beach,