A book is a textbook.
But wait, I probably just made you unhook;
as handbooks, phonebooks, and passbooks might make for a closed book.
Please, I won’t make this boring; this won’t be a yearbook
of many different kinds of books.
Let’s talk about literature.
Were those books literature?
No, literature is a sketchbook of personality,
brutality into an excluding English canon –
sorry Shannon, you’ll have to wait a hundred years
before everyone cheers that you’re the next Shakespeare.
No, literature is emotion.
A motion that our dreams are a magic spell,
an inkwell that weeps onto parchment paper
to form a skyscraper that feels like sandpaper on the human soul.
No, literature is consumerism.
Escapism that funds the big corporations;
relations where letter ‘S’ looks like a dollar sign;
a shrine for the times we need a break from reality.
No, literature is what we are taught.
The fabled spot is only given by a scholar's blessing,
guessing that nothing popular is worthwhile
in a vast aisle of infinite possibilities.
I don’t know what literature is.
Is it supposed to make you laugh?
But no, what it is doesn’t matter.
Just don’t bend the pages to save your spot.
The author bled passion into that plot.
You bought confessions, after all.