Four Ways to Avoid a Book

My problem with writing is that it often doesn't make anything physically useful, except for pages and by the pages, thicker bonds of paper find purpose as covers and by the pages and covers, the glues and ink have a reason until, finally, the wood and nails of shelves know their own lot in life
And I guess, somewhere in the very beginning, before any other pair of hands and eyes had their way with them, the words must have made use of the writer. But no matter which end you start with it is only ever bound by very short spine.
So in some lingering sense of pity for writers and their words I have always wanted to turn them into paintings, t-shirts, plates, seat covers, airplanes, cough syrup. Magnetic poetry, that you painstakingly peal off a half inch at a time and place on the right shoulder of your refrigerator, that gives those poor little suckers a chance, doesn't it? Free from the darkness of a closed page or mutilation of a crumpled note. But they don't carry their own story, only hint at the very typical one in you, like a clever but useless therapist.
I might look at graphic design and see some freedom there, but it is often a slave to mass production and its independence short-lived before the look, words and purpose are co-opted to appeal the largest market, and by that we lose our story again. So I have to find a way between the pages, refrigerator magnets and glossy alpha-vectors, I have to find a way to physically mobilize my words in the most authentic way.
Right now I have come up with only four ideas:
Stitching on vintage hats
Mini typed books attached to retractable string that hang off of walls
Scratching black letters on mirrors
Large silk cut outs, sentences at a time, hung like Cristo...did I spell that right? I want to say Christo- like Jesus's office buddy name, "'ey, Christ-O, making copies..."
anyways, like him but fabric words across an open field right off of I-10.
I'll just leave it at those four and see if I can do it.