And the books? Well they feel good,
read good, stir good, like a big wooden
spoon in the slowly congealing Mapo
of my heart. But the remnants of the
read, the sediment of want and need,
quickly turn back into silt-slush,
mud-mush and slime . . .
'What do I do' still rings true after
reading my favorite, my literary
tourniquet, my . . . loveable you. 

Don't get me wrong, your colorful words
magnify experience beyond a dream.
While reading them even I'm brilliant.
But after I close the book I'll be
damned if my words don't turn
even more black and white.

So, my question is . . .
If it's only a temporary fix,
what the hell am I paying you for?
my Pusher Dominatrix.