Book spine poetry is a lot of fun

I like making collages, always have. I made a quilt as part of my honors thesis for undergrad (also fun, but a lot of work) and have dabbled a bit with quilting since. I recently started making mosaics out of the glassware I smash with my friends when the mood strikes. I guess I like putting random bits of things together to make something new.

The other day, I saw something online (I think it was a Brain Pickings article, but the source doesn't really matter) that had pictures of book spines lined up to tell a new and different story. Some of them were more abstract, like poems. I thought it was awesome.

So, tonight, I foraged through my own library, pulling books off the shelves if I'd always liked their titles or if they seemed like they'd go with something else. (I discovered that poets are way better at titling their books than pretty much everyone else.) I mixed up my nonfiction, my text books, and my children's books with my poetry, short stories, and novels. IT WAS SO MUCH FUN. (But, man oh man, I made a huge mess. There are books ALL OVER the floor of my library. I really don't want to have to reshelve everything.)

Here are my favorites:

Ten seconds on justice, power, and human nature atop an underwood.

The Garden of Eden. East of Eden. Supernaturally imagined communities.

A death in the family. SLAM! You suck.

A monster calls devilish bloodsucking fiends, "I don't want to go to jail."

A prayer for the dying, endlessly fragile things. (Beside small gods of grief, inheritance, and four tragedies small as an elephant.)

The last good kiss on the road. It's kind of a funny story on the nature of human romantic interaction.

You know where to find me - the realm of possibilities.

What if grammar snobs are great big meanies?! (Let's pretend this never happened.)

Nice girls finish last. My heart is an idiot. LIAR!

Free women slouching towards Bethlehem this side of paradise, after long silence SPEAK, daring greatly.

I am the messenger of gravity and angels, except for one obscene brushstroke.

A question of existence, where cats meditate on lies, secrets, and silence.

What the body told the girls next door the day I swapped my dad for two goldfish.