There Is A Book

on my floor. I haven't read it yet. It is Richard Siken's Crush. It is placed two feet in front of my couch, cover-side up, in line with the place where my leftmost couch cushion meets the middle couch cushion. It has been in this position for two weeks.

That's not entirely accurate. I read the first three poems. And the introduction by Louise Gluck.

So why haven't I read it yet? Why have I allowed it to remain in one position, on my floor, for such a lengthy period of time? It is because it has become more than a book. That's right. It is an example of what Catholics like to call trans-substantiation. Exactly two weeks ago, give or take a couple of days, this book of poetry, the fruition of one man's obsession, metamorphed into something entirely sacred and untouchable. It became an icon, a window into the sublime. It found shape in symbol. It realized itself, its unwordly potential, its transcendence of language, its apocryphal humanism, when it was read by a particular friend of mine, a friend who wondered aloud at the consumptive lyrics contained therein.

Which friend later subvocally bestowed upon me the honorific "asshat" and supervocally said,
- Take me home right the fuck NOW.

I'm telling you, it wasn't my fault. I didn't realize it was a date. How could I invite a woman over to my apartment and not realize that it was a date? Because I'm dense that way. What I wanted was her input on the selection of poems for a journal. Because she, the woman that was at my apartment, is one of the three most intelligent women that I've ever met, her opinion was important to me. The other two being from high school, I haven't seen them since: Jaya Agrawal and Sarah Moore. Jaya was the valedictorian of my class. I had a thing for her, because she had a statue of Ganesh in her locker. I'm actually not really convinced that Jaya ranks up there in the top three, since her brilliance was obviously due to her spending entirely too much time studying. I think that's unfair, competing against brilliant people who didn't study at all. Sarah, on the other hand, while she did study as well, began to slack off by the time that I knew her. She became rather fond of dissolution after that. The last I heard about her was from my brother. He said he saw her once a couple of years after high school. She was beating some sap with a hammer because he couldn't pay her for some money he borrowed or something. And then she got him naked and walked him home so he could get the money from his parents. So these two are the company that this friend of mine keeps, up there in the top three brilliant women that I've known.

Note: There is another, but her genius isn't the same as those others. She's different. I don't know how to explain it, other than to say that she's different. It isn't really an intellectual sort of thing with her.

And now the book is where my friend left it, on the floor. And now I am contemplating whether something should perhaps be done with said book, loathe as I am to interrupt its divine communion.

I would appreciate any ideas that you dearest of readers may offer, as to its imaginably great fate.

If nobody endeavors to propose any, I suppose that I will make a Christmas gift of it. Perhaps even gifted to my aforementioned friend, with the intention of affecting a favorable re-judgement.