The Bookstore

I can nearly taste the succulent nectars which will quell these cravings. Each isle, a parallel universe, beckons me towards worlds of endless exploration. I ride the turbulent waves of Raskolnikov’s mind, dive into an ocean of Shakespeare, sail through the luminous grandeur of the cosmos, and suddenly run into a giant penis drawn on the bathroom wall of the bookstore. It is crude, the work of an amateur. it lacks the artistry of the Greek nude, it spits in the visage of human anatomy, it defaces a facade as bleak as a bathroom wall. I picture the tragic soul who when faced with epochs of knowledge and beauty, receded to the dim confines of the lavatory with a pencil and drew a penis on a wall. I muse on a possible future as a neuroscientist when I might study this exotic compulsion of drawing penises on walls. Or as an evolutionary psychologist I may uncover the survival advantages of this bizarre ritual. But casting a fleeting glimpse at this tumid monstrosity, I ruefully realize - We’re screwed as a species.

gene16180

My muse can be unseemly and nomadic although she fancies meter and good rhyme, her diligence and output are sporadic, and some may say she’s moving past her prime. At times she’s off consorting with the sages reflecting on existence, as it were, At...

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