Swilling dregs from my second bottle of wine
I imagine slouching towards Bethlehem 
in a leather easy chair 1001 nights before glancing
at my bookshelves where I ponder the broken cord, 
question beet queen contestants, sow dragon seed 
inspiration, remain ever vigilant of red flags
that suggest imminent bell jar suffocation.

Warrior women juxtaposed with the brothers Karamazov
remind me that, Lolita-like, we have always lived in a castle 
chilling to primal myths, love medicine, and Frankenstein
knowing neither the tale of Genii nor little foxes navigate
space and examine good and evil merits like a wrinkle in time;
epiphanies delineate relationships in the hollow hills from Oedipus rex
to the metamorphosis as my library odyssey takes a beloved pause.

Far from the madding crowd, arms fully embrace the wide sargasso sea
where an animal farm can’t exploit a ship of fools, disrupt Finnegans wake,
or query why one flew over the cuckoo’s nest to kill a mockingbird
near a house on mango street where a good man is hard to find,
the heart is a lonely hunter, and things fall apart as I lay dying
meditating like Siddhartha, miss lonelyhearts, and steppenwolf, 
welcoming the lord of the rings, experiencing a brave new world.