The Book

There is a book that you do
not know. Hard bound.
Gummy.

It was a long trip.
I took a machete to its ink soaked
dress, paddled through
its mysterious
sea of
bad clams. But he wrote it.

He with his ego gala hidden
underneath his racy
beard. The claps,
the bouquets of fraud that
come calling
when a new page is written,
sealed.

The rules are boundless, without
architecture or
makeup.
There would have been a beefy,
apple pie house
but
a pig’s pen
stamped itself onto Arch’s A-E.
From the start….
crippled pages held compact in
iron arms.