Charles Austin Muir

Jim Morrison Library Poem

Inspired by “People Are Strange”

No one knows my name here.
I come here several times a week
and the only recognition I get
is from a card scanner.

As always,
the guy at the circulation desk
scowls at his monitor
as if I haven’t just walked in.
He gets the same treatment from me
even though I like his
Naked Lunch T-shirt.

I pull my CD from the hold shelf.

I enter the empty meeting room.

The doors of perception
are so clean here
that the doorway has no door anymore
and the library’s bustling floor
appears to me as it truly is:
A house of solipsistic quests,
catalogued and controlled.

I suppose it’s my hold item
that’s got me thinking about doors:
Strange Days, by The Doors.

Here’s strange in three steps.
One: Look outside
and make sure no wide-eyed
children are in sight.
Two: Open backpack.
Three: Pull out Fleshlight.

Clear. Check. Check.

Good God… I can’t believe
I’m going to put my penis
in this thing.
It’s so grandiose and sci-fi-looking.

Woooooo doggie.
The toothy squeezings
of the Fleshlight Destroya
grind me down to nubs
of ecstasy.
The synthetic sex mouth
loves me two times
and I would go for three
but for the town council meeting
that’s supposed to start.

The Fleshlight Destroya
is aptly named.
I am destroyed.

Destroyed and…
still unobserved.

I can’t even disturb anyone
getting off
with a gadget that looks
like a planet eater
in a Star Trek episode.
Maybe I should try
the Autoblow 2 tomorrow—
from what I saw in a video
it sounds like a giant robot
with asthma.

Let’s push this
Lizard King of the Library
act as far as it will go.


My legs shake.
I pump them down
the central aisle.
They take me by
the book return window.
I’m drawn to something I’ve never
noticed on the other side of it:
Desks and carpeting.

And right in front of me
at crotch height,
the guy in the Naked Lunch T-shirt
is sorting media in a basket truck.
What the fuck!
He’s noticed me.
Or rather—my groin area.
And in my euphoria
I realize that despite my
failed attempt to provoke
I still wear the chain
of conformity.

I still subscribe
to the library’s
seclusive program.

But how many walls
do we really need
to police our patronage?
Must we be complete strangers?
Aren’t we strange enough already?
The clerk with his elbows in a pile
of CDs and DVDs and me
with my concealed
penis swallower, the two of us
posing as if responsible use
of lending materials is all
that matters?

The rules are so ingrained in him
he reaches for my hold item
which I haven’t even checked out
yet. His hand hovers in the window
like an American prayer
that doesn’t care if it’s answered.
And in my post-orgasmic high,
I think…

why deny him.

Here you go, Naked Lunch Man.
Here is my Doors CD.
But before I hand it over
you will do something for me.
You will break the chain.
You will touch my fingertips
on the cracked jewel case
and I will trace your toils
down your oily thumb.
No one will think
we’re being impractical.
No one will notice.

There. It’s yours. Thank you,
Naked Lunch Man.
It was a pleasure to mind meld
with your fingers.
To scan your phalangeal
For a moment we transformed
this slotted node into a bridge
between flesh and purpose,
intimate yet still contained,
the library equivalent
of a glory hole.

I’ll be back tomorrow
(with the Autoblow 2).
But in the hours between
I’ll think about you
as I make my way through
the rain and uneven streets
of this town that wants
to devour us both.

Come to think of it,
you should get a
Naked Lunch Man.
The Destroya’s teeth
may open your mind’s
to a world you’ve
never seen

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