A book can fuck you up

So I just bought this book (though I wish I had stolen it now) called The Outlaw Bible of American Poetry. It's been in my possession for only about an hour, but already it's gotten to me. Fucked me up in the best possible of ways.

This book. It makes me want to go somewhere - not by myself, that wouldn't work - but with a someone who's subliminally outraged, like me. This place. Has to be a place fashioned for shouting, yelling, dare I even say yawping, or is that too easy? It has to be outdoors and have reachable vistas where we can call/text/im to the gods, and expect an answer. An answering bloop, or sound bite from Gabriel's "Games Without Frontiers." Which incidentally is my text alert. Not a very long or interesting story, but sentimental to me.

I found pink post-its in my drawer that 2 weeks ago I couldn't access, because the drawer was too close to the bottom of my desk, and I couldn't fit my hand inside or even for that matter see what was stored in there. All that changed when I had the brilliant idea to switch out the contents of that drawer with a lower one, which contained things like a personal library stamping kit for lending out books, and Fellini greeting cards. Things I wouldn't mind my hand being too gigantic to grab.

And I post-it'ed the mother out of this book. Now it's got a hot pink sort of mohawk, marking odes to toilets and flash the lights to the children on the streets. d.a. levy, my new favorite poet, I'm his new personal hairdresser and I gave him a mohawk. And at 10:41p on a Tuesday night when I haven't done pretty much fuckall all day except people watch and obsess at Mexicali on Ventura, that feels pretty empowering.

So my question I pose to you: would you like a mohawk? Because I will give you one.