#538: I Can’t Read

I love to read
but I find lately
that I can’t read shit,
just like Bowie sang
in that song by
Tin Machine:
it seems that
“I can’t read shit
anymore.”
I blame the
internet and
stupid smart phones
for turning my
attention span
into squirrel brain.
Did you know
that squirrels
can’t remember
where they buried
most of their nuts?
I feel like that
sometimes, like
I can’t find my
reading nuts.
I have big
ambitions to read
every book in my
house before I die.
I better get on it.
I’m happy to
report, I am making
something of an
effort to read more.
Even though
Moby Dick stands
ready for me
to try again
(my great white
whale of a book),
I begin with
poetry, not because
I like it more,
but because it
suits the squirrel
brain, because I
can focus intensely
for the duration
of a poem, so long
as it’s not too long,
and then I can
rest for a minute,
then read another
poem. In this manner
I have read four
books of poetry
in as many weeks.
It comforts me
to know that I am
reading again,
and poetry is
helping me get
there, about 60
pages at a time.
It’s not that
poetry is easier
to read, only
shorter, and that’s
what the doctor
ordered right now.
I think soon,
after another couple
books of poetry,
I’ll read a prose
chapbook or two.
I’ve been collecting
a few of those,
and at about 40
pages a pop,
I think I can do
it, and then, some
day into the not
so distant future,
I will put down
my phone, stay away
from my computer
for sustained periods
every single day,
and once again,
I will pick up
Moby Dick
and read it,
and this time,
I will finish.