LIBRARY CHAOS
by Thomas Hesketh
In modern libraries lies danger: in the clickity-clack
of keyboards
tossing type
against nature’s time
In dust worn tomes
pulled from hibernation
away from another age
gods glare from gilded titles
silence shreds shadows
In the rustle of newspaper pages
wrestled into submission
to expose a day’s crimes
a puzzling crossword
a cartoon’s muffled chuckle
A ventilation shaft comes alive
circulating City’s diseases
as squeaks squawk from the door
a muffled cough clouds the air
returns to its seat
Masking hum of photons in flight
rebounding from ebony marks
on ice white dried tree souls
tickling or taunting gray brain cells
fixed as a blocked writer’s blank page
Over coffee stained deceased carpet
sunlight crawls reflected off high rise windows
patient as a snake’s tongue tasting for prey
illuminating invisible breaths with a light touch
a fallen volume disturbs listless air
Horizontal books conspire against vertical spines
dictionaries rail against defective grammars
a thoroughly thumb-indexed thesaurus alliterates
back at swamp-bound brontosaurus’ bones
no dynamic end to fossil frozen tails
Punctuation marks conspire to allocate white space
fonts parade in disguise without point
miniscule types promote greater majesty
religion spits in philosophy’s I
history stutters, stammers, repeats its shelves
Foreign languages babble amid dissenting declension
archaic classics jostle against contemporary truth
tongues lash against gnashing teeth
whispers violate scared space
a cemetery voice if you please
Chaos consumes well-ordered space
futile attempts to bring order expire
Dewey decimals rule rights and don’ts
Congressional repositories reposition truth
left and right goosesteps fly a-feather
Doors slam barring unwashed entry
food for thought yet naught are sated
colored books do not equal books of color
nor noir as blanc as black and white
window prism spread rainbow as crystal
Readers mumble English from left to right
count Arabic numbers from Indian zero to infinity
multiplying Roman numerals not at all;
this world makes sense from top to bottom
until it makes no sense at all.
Anxiety
pen and ink on paper
Nightshade