So I went to the Library today, mostly beacuse libraries are naturally calming, soothing, and engaging places to be and I randomly saw a book with a picture of a man stirring the clouds of Earth called The Kitchen Sink. Anyway, it turned out to be a book of poetry, and I liked two poems, "the Library" (which is far too long ot reproduce here) and "Stephen Hawking, Walking" especially which I will reproduce below.

I rolled myself down to the Thames,
The better to ogle the dames
is a half-rhym I wrote and like
and remember now at the ricerside
where the molecules of my feet
inside my feet are very definitely arranged
in the act of walking; and,
whenever I think of those insubstantial tentacles
of subatomic particles from the gold sking of these women
--streaming out of them into the humid air that rests
as thick as Guiness-head on the water, and from there
out to the ionosphere, in the evermix
of the universe--then
the molecules inside my feet are positively dancing,
oh and negatively dancing, and nothing
courtly either: the boogaloo or the dirty dog
from a honky-tonk in some American mill town!
I love the skins of these women and I want them

in the way in which we all want abstract beauty,
as when an equation clicks its tumblers into place.
I trust that some of them may want me in this same way,
though I see on walks an infant in a pram
who thinks my face is a deflated balloon.
And looks just like a protozoon
is another jingly half-rhyme of my happy composition,
I want the baby's tears! The baby is sponsoring
two quick licks of salf out into this rivery air
that's as yellowish-gray as the keratin in horn.
I love the river, and its nonstationary skin. i want to lick
those saline runnels up those saucer-of-sweetcream cheeks
beyond that?--the sonsummare darkness
of the living human cavity! there is so much
left to love. No wonder my long work at the blackboard,
and the chalk, and the hundreds of thousands of seabottom corpses
comprising the chalk, and te puffed dust
winking around my logarithms and cosines,
make me want to lick these golden women

feverishly to the origin-spot, and then to the other,
impossible side of the origin-spot: because this is my chosen labor, because the fowering cosmos necessarily once was a seed, and I would enter it
doing whoop-de-do and the bossa nove. Someone
tether me to the planet, then let me
love the tether, chewing my way through its leather,
milk me sugar from out of the fleshes of the dancefloor couples
into a tendril of motes in teh first and the last,
the ur and the nano, the pixel and fiches,
the sexual and celestial singularity of everything
the universe imagines through us,
its language. This

I've needed to tel you in words, though
in teh molecules inside my head
I've thought it completely in numbers.