To Be Read

My book has been in your

TBR pile

for an awfully long time.

I notice it’s getting

bumped within the queue,

by that tome from Poet X—

still toasty to the touch—

the one you boast

is a 21st-century Rumi.

I get it. You said you’ll

do a blurb. Posting it up on

AssFace when you’re done.

But Gray’s

Anatomy—really?

Just look at yourself in the

mirror if you’re unsure

where everything is.

Robert’s Rules of Order

would be commendable—

if you actually showed

for meetings. I’ve never

even seen you in a chair—

let alone as. La-Z-Boy &

Cheetos doesn’t count.

I’ve tired of your excuses,

why my stunning

magnum opus is clad in

mites, wisps and strands of

webbing spun when dodos

walked the earth;

languishing under your

lamp—with the scrolls

of Agamemnon, the Guide to

Cooking Manna, or the Jokes

of Gutenberg,

a volume that he conjured as

a test run, before laying out the

letters for the Bible while he

sweat, the immortality

of errata, the pressure of a perfect

Word, something that you

swear you’ll get around

to one of these days. 

Andreas Gripp

January 16, 2026

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