By David Eide  

In The Bookstore

In the bookstore today to watch the half-glib people
Paw through the books looking for a miracle. "Oh books", they
Seem to say. "You validate me and put me on the proper platform". 
Eternal worriers sipping their tea, telling themselves,
"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 removed the philosophy section, cast it 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 has 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 didn't understand this until I had fought out of fifty traps.
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 to make weapons that only 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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