Making A Mess Out of Literature

9106 is the house number where I grew up and where my parents still live. This is where I was always allowed to make a huge mess when I was a kid. Making a mess is actually a pretty good approach to life. The other day I was looking at a friend's chapbook and we started pulling it apart line by line in order to put it back together. Sometimes this seems like second nature and other times I couldn't be bothered. As if the the things not worth pulling apart aren't worth the trouble in the first place. But then there's also basking. I am not sure where that comes in. The whole critical mind thing and then the open-minded receptive mind that (in my case) reads without seizing and lets everything slip away. In a way it's like I've never read the text at all. Which seems antithetical to how I feel I'm supposed to be reading as a poet, but also weirdly okay in a mindfulness way. Holding things then letting them go.