November 8, 2005: Open books...

Are far more useful than those closed.
Closed books are paperweights and doorstops;
Open books are imaginations flooding pages.
I could take a closed book and sling it at your head,
but to open it up and fling it at you like a frisbee might be more fun.
The pages would flutter and ripple, the sound would dimple
the plane of tense silence. Open books make time for laughter.
The rich smell of an old book is staunched by its closing,
To open it releases its age, the textured worn pages, the
grocery store receipt left in it months ago, or perhaps a letter.
Open books have yet surprises: one can not look at all
a book's pages at once. Though cracked and creased
the binding may be, paragraphs broken by pagination
spill, and roar through chapters, water chasing broken pieces
of levies. Let me spill and roar, let me take words, paragraphs,
chapters to explain. I would be an open book, any day, rather than close my pages, so surely removing myself from the mind's eye.