I see that finely tuned book;
the one with the clever metaphors
wonderful anomalies
and cheap irony.

The book is a hard-cover
but its spine is loose;
pages barely cling to its glue.

It’s rustic,
old and dusty;
its that kind of dusty that
even when you blow on it
the dust just sits there.
That’s a sign of a good book.

It is a good book,
one of those books you really
wish that you’d wrote,
maybe for an assignment in college,
or on the laziest of August days.

That way you could look back and say
“Damn, I was pretty good.
I was pretty damn good back then.”
Course you were a hell-of-a lot better
back then than you are now.


It’s a damn good book.
I love it, I’ve loved every page on
Hindsight.
It’s a tough read too,
you’re not going to understand it all
not because you got the “B” in English
but because it’s a really tough book.
That’s the part most people don’t get;
sometimes, you’re not going to get it.
It adds something to it for me,
it really does and I really do like it.

The best part though,
the part that makes me a zealot for this book,
the part that really sells me,
is that I haven’t quite finished reading it yet.