The author in question, to my astute knowledge, has never seen a book,
has never walked into a bookstore on purpose, or even by mistake,
entertaining himself by perusing the shelves, wandering aimlessly.
Books are a religion to some for sure, belief in the Word, I mistook
on reading the Gospel according to Saint John, the beloved of Christ,
on witnessing His death, John gives testimony so others rise awake,
kiss the hand that feeds them, gathering up His sheep, always unselfishly,
still I read critically, not as the faithful read, but as one cast aside,
even after reading the Gospels in English, watching a French bank heist
left me feeling better, like watching a movie makes more sense than these words,
literally, decades past before the author gave a reading within,
even he found it strange, accustomed to the woods, the songs of native birds,
restless, he talked, pacing, as if upon a stage, or on a trail, his thin
tall, wiry frame, could not stand sitting at a desk, nor remaining inside,
only, I had coached him to focus on his breath, to mediate before
the reading to his fans, the readers of his book, the book he didn't write,
he had a ghostwriter, someone who knew bookstores and the scent of old books,
elegance of manners, the author chewed the fat and spat in the bookstore.
Readers as audience watched and listened to him, had him sign their copies,
entertained for the night and satisfied, they rushed home to eat dinner, bite
another few chapters of their latest conquest before thinking...the crooks
darn well know better than to take money for tales of milking the poppies,
everyone came to me, after twenty-two years, for my resignation,
readers around the world care not for booksellers, but for denigration.
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