What writers don’t know

is that

boring books of the dead

will make their readers die.

Mummies come alive

when

their hearts are stolen

and their skin

is up-tight.

I look at my brain

pickled in a jar

and it’s not kosher.

We are so quick to take offense

at the smallest slight.

Our skin is pulled-tight

over bleached bones

like a human canoe

or a bird

in flight.

There is no formula

for a safe reaction.

A book speaks,

or it doesn’t—

the desert is littered

with useless facts, like candy bar wrappers

eaten by Arabs

driving their ships

across NOTHING.

Readers don’t spend time Reading

the sand

filtering

in and out

of their minds

like an hour glass.

They do it

to find the gold

buried there

in a sea of horrible books.

I must bite

like a spider

eating her husband.

History

is a lawless idea

written

by somebody

who can make mummies breathe.

I can see them

driving their sports cars

with their stringy hair

blowing in the wind,

honking

at the dead people in traffic.

The science teacher

knows

how to wake-up his students.

That is the sign

of a necromancer—

a man

who makes the dead dance.

The fat English teacher looks at me

and asks

about my job.

I kill her with my words.

Being boring

is a science.

I am afraid

of being the safe

secure

man.

The science teacher knows

what I’m doing

because he

brings the dead back, every day.

It takes a life-giver

to know a killer.

But in secret,

I bring a few back

to the other side (at least I hope so).

9 thoughts on “What Writers Don’t Know

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