By David Eide  

In The Bookstore

In the bookstore to watch the half-glib people
Paw through the books looking for a miracle. 

"Oh books", they seem to say. "You validate me"  

Eternal worriers sip their tea, 
"We are here for business."

"We don't want to fail again; 
the season is ripe for failure; 
the air is cold and lax."

And they cast out the philosophy section, 
out to the winter wind.

And they had colorful cards 
depicting (what they called) perverse sex; 
a leaping character on the box with bugged-out eyes.

"Who is going to tell us what is what?"

I heard her say, "It's more than what I want to know. 
I mean the totality."

The scholars' fight with each other on these shelves; 
a brief sipid fight between anonymous brains.

"Well," I says to myself, "this is the real world." 

And they poured me a wonderful cup of chocolate.
And I watched the sloth-like move 
into unknown territories of themselves,
amused at the effects a drug had on them
 or the crazy thing a woman has told them.

The First Rule

He said, "the first rule is that any freedom I give you is a trap."
"The only freedom you get will be the one you fight for."

And I understood this in the fiftieth trap I fought from.
Death stood in the middle singing silly songs of happiness.
And I danced with her for a time, singing silly songs of happiness.

Until the exit pressed against my nonsensical body and made me sad.
"What does freedom want more from me?" And I exited into the murk

Of solid unhappy days, made weapons that work if you believe in them.
I wanted so to return to the happy traps filled with silly songs. 

Those silly songs we sing when we believe we are fully free.

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