Bookworm

I've been keyless and phoneless

even penniless more often than

I've lacked a book

in a pocket or a pack.

That was the tease

from my Portuguese uncle

who fancied himself a wit.

Not enough to make me quit

reading about mastodons

and saber toothed cats

trapped in the La Brea tar pits

or searching for dinosaur eggs

with Roy Chapman Andrews

in the sands of the Gobi Desert.

Saving seventy five cents for something

by that old racist, Edgar Rice Burroughs.

Tarzan was always rescuing the fair damsel

from some leering savage just before

he was about to ravage her pale virginity.

Hoping that for once he'd be too late.

But he never was.

Childhood's naivete gave way,

darker fantasy held sway

and I found myself enmeshed

in a military reality

grimmer than the pages

of any dystopian book.

I drenched my mind in the philosophies

of Schopenhauer and Nietzche, Mills and Locke. 

I had plenty of time and crystal meth.

I always kept a book tucked

inside the logbook of my Jeep.

Which led to the amusing incident

when a visiting General discovered

that I was reading that little red one

that millions waved over their heads

in Tiananmen Square.

He asked me where I got it.

I said -at the Stars and Stripes bookstore

back at the battalion headquarters.

My other job, when I wasn't driving

the Battery Commander, and visiting Generals,

was separating edible from inedible garbage.

Thank you Mr Beckett for your novels.

They led me to find some satisfaction

making impromptu compositions

with leftover mess hall mashed potatoes,

lima beans, and jello salad.

Dark trashy mysteries and mayhem

are still hard for me to resist

especially when flying on a long trip.

I want something as easy to digest

as the packet of pretzels they give you.

I save the good ones for the destination.