Fucking Books

There must be sex organs hidden somewhere inside my books.

Perhaps in front of their spines. Perhaps kept in the book’s gutter The gutter is where the pages are attached (either sewn or glued) .

I don’t know where the sex organs are, but I do know, my books are procreating. They are spawning and begetting more and more books. I did not buy all the books in my house, they are the progeny of other books, I’m convinced.

Nine large bookshelves filled to the gills, with books piled on top to the ceiling should be sufficient for a small Cape Cod home with two resident readers. Add in a whole attic where we store other books, ones we hate to throw out but don’t have room for on the shelves. Then add in the book piles that appear like anthills, one day no pile, next day, out of the blue, huge teetering pile on every flat surface in the house.

Night stands once easy to dust, evolve into more piles of books – a coffee table that on Monday held a lovely Architectural Digest magazine and a vase with flowers, on Tuesday looks like a tag sale table stacked with books, some I’m sure I’ve never seen before – books no one has ever seen before and no one knows where they came from.

Double copies – can’t tell you how many double copies of books I have. Would I purposely go out and buy 4 copies of the same book? I think not.

That has to be an example of book cloning or asexual reproduction…which I think is also happening between the sheets of paper-- making up the pounds and mounds of books I find everywhere.

Or, like my original premise, the book explosion is due to unseen genitalia, discretely hiding under the covers of books…doing what genitalia does -- which is follow its drive to mingle with other genitalia and many times, procreate – leaving me with hundreds of descendent books inhabiting my home like locusts on the plains.

Yes, I’m sure that’s what’s happening here.