A reasonable human being
surely ought to burn down
his or her house
every five years or so,
when the proliferation of paper
becomes so suffocating that,
cleaning one's office, a few sheets
go into the waste basket
while the rest join dozens
of piles mentally labelled
'To File' or 'Uncertain Whether To Save or Throw Out'.
Writing this, a thought comes
like a plant growing through cement:
some people may have
file draws that actually function
and still have room in them,
and I feel like a sinner
in hell, looking up, feeling
for the first time, hope.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Max, Max, Max...so good to read you again! Combining mountains of paper with another...in wedded union....is double trouble....Ishmael Reed wrote a little poemette that I heard him read that said something to the effect that if he had known he would be the kind of person who would have mountains of paper lying around his home, he would have been born a match! Nice one, Max.