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Susannah Getty - Lexington, KY (USA):
April 03, 2001:
This book has been caught kissing girls behind the schoolhouse,
or they've been kissing it. This book would never tell.
This book contains all the words my mother never said, the words
she would think without this book in her hands.
This book drinks tea with lemon, washes its feet in swollen rivers,
eats wax fruit.
This book would never tell you what to think, even when you
wish it would.
April 05, 2001:
This book is a man's man's kind of book and tells a
man's man's story; it's heroic, it's epic, with Gilgamesh written between the
This book hasn't once torn the petals off daisies, doesn't know if
you love it; it doesn't care and wouldn't admit it.
This book is required for myopics and those twice divorced.
This book will sprout hair on your chest -- please read with
Sometimes this book still misses its mother and the dark wet of
April 11, 2001:
This book was written by the left handed priest, his right hand
around his neck, the sea swollen with fever, the full moon dipping
toward the back of the room.
This book is a new religion, written in the Lingua Franca of
highly educated economists who purchased the monastery for a steal,
including the priest, who dreams this book when no one is looking,
the words so small so precise, but -- look closer! -- bulging
This book knows nothing of money but what we tell it.
It bleeds real blood. It prays for the poor and lost at
sea; it knows it's way around a woman's hips, laughs loudly at
movies, eats from the low end of the food chain. This
book knows all about Our F
This book is still looking for its Mother.
April 13, 2001:
This book was based on the Bible, knows all your ex-lovers, has
a very long bibliography.
Long ago, this book, carried by prophets, walked along side a camel
in some Arabic desert. It once sang them to sleep for a
thousand days; they have never forgotten.
This book does not speak English and would feel insulted if you
asked it to, so donít ask it to even in German.
My sister once wore this book in her navel, the bridegroom studied
it carefully well into the night. He still carries the notes on
his tongue. This book, it contains everything you have been waiting
all your life, but never dared ask and only once or twice
in the dead of night wished for, ever so sweetly.
This book has
not been sanitized.
April 16, 2001:
Having witnessed Brittany Spears on television only once, this book is no
longer content to be a book and will soon be available
and on dvd
swaying its words like little lean hips and breasts or a jewel
in a well toned belly. Now realizing that nice girls finish last
if they finish at all, this book wishes to promise nothing less
than bare collarbone and slick shaved thighs,
that perpetual ache of space between your lips and his. This book
is turning itself into a breatless exposť (smile for the camera) and
will soon shoot straight up the charts.
This book has finally gotten wise and is going to bodice bust
its way out of here. It has trademarked a cheap French name.
This book plans to sell alot of Pepsi.
This book screams to Hell with the consequences.
April 18, 2001:
This book is about the sins of the corporation visited upon the
community, more specifically, that slick blonde woman in the next row who
doesnít know yet that next week she isnít going to know
how she is going to pay her mortgage and SUV lease (or
her husbands) and the how good the public library is going to
start looking to her, instead of this leather bound bookstore
and the double no-caf latte latte (skim milk froth please) that are
usually part of the $50+ a week excursion. She doesnít know that
this book knows and could explain in detail why she is no
longer necessary and soon will no longer need high speed internet access
or two cellphones and pager that she will have to continue payment
on for six or seven months or theyíll call the bill
collectors. She still knows nothing about calls like that, or generic poptarts
or how to peel her own potatoes. This book knows, however, and
three aisles down to the left are others that can tell her.
But thatís next week.
April 26, 2001:
This book was written with three days to spare; what would have
happened at the Bay of Pigs without this book?
Leather bound, this book was my father's favorite although he seldom read
even the SunTimes and never the Tribune, he knew. God, how he
This book is my mother's: petal pink and hardly a clue; left
alone it could never stand on the shelf, buckling under the weight
of its own pages.
"The Three Little Pigs". This book holds the door to the cellar
This book (twinkle twinkle) sings me to sleep.