By David Eide  

The Joy of Simply Living Denizens of the city darkness spring from beds made of tar. And they dance over the adult book store drinking wine, listening to the horrible Music. Then suddenly turn angry and wander senseless though the The sad city streets empty with cement barriers. Heated minds, there, ashamed of the airless times When the cameras moved in and made them famous. Having abandoned the calendar and watch Reality was a wheel of woe. A mere attachment Of the futile ego to what went unchanged through generations. "Ten thousand things, ten thousand things have your way with me." "Ten thousand things, ten thousand things bury the people in their idiocy." And the ones that aren't stoned are faux Marxists and the stoned go around believing they are Beethoven, sometimes, Einstein.