Michael the Unwise and Rachel the Easy had a ten and tale at the Toe to Flow Book Show. There were volumes of steel, there were vibraries of no, and they stopped for the looks, and they would for to go. Feet were in fusion and scratch was in session, and if you were nightly you would have noticed them all day. Michael said Rachel and Rachel said doggy, but that didn’t stop them, it only expanded.
They moved their bodies as twice as too many, they danced for pleasure like pumping for oil. They trolled the waters with big teeth and eyeballs, and then they took respite, the best way to linger.
The show itself was a pool’s paradise of tattered covers and waylaid assorties. If you wanted to find a speeding, you had to be a general. If you were a corporal, you better try the old assault manual. Michael and Rachel, as unwise and as easy, had the best grasp on their groping, as they could surely book show.
“Do you need a book?” said Rachel, as easy as a bookfinder might say it when she was feeling book-lucky.
“Not exactly,” said Cyclops, but he was scanning the titles on all the spines of the spiney volumes.
“Can I help you find anything?” said Michael the Unwise just as wise as someone who might have a bit of it but also is quite epitheticly modest.
“The wisdom I seek is not found in books, is not bound in covers,” and Cyclops says this, but he still scans some crusty old pages between one cardboard cover or another.
“But what wisdom isn’t?” says Rachel, still easy, but with a bit of a mean on her mouth and her lean.
“But what is worth knowing that isn’t to be found upon the printed page, in any time, in any age?” and Michael says this, showing much more wisdom than his usual name gives him credit for.
Michael and Rachel and Rachel and Michael shove books at his one eye, they open the pages and show him the wisdom, they show him the words that hold locked in their meanings, they flurry the pages so he can grab them with gleanings, they show him the covers so he can glance at all the others. There is so much to see, there is so much to read, and with only one eye, no matter how huge and hideous, he can’t quite go fast enough, he can’t quite get there.
“I don’t see it in these pages, I don’t see it at this speed, I don’t see it bound by covers, I don’t have the time to read.”
Rachel and Michael get ready to go to the next Toe to Flow Book Show customer, but Cyclops stops them with more words, “But you two have read so many, while I have read so few, so you have all that wisdom, and I don’t have a clue. So many I could ask you, and maybe you could tell, the things I seek in knowledge, so that I would know them well.”
This, of course, appeals to their Michael and Rachel, and Rachel and Michael start talking about how many books they do read every week, be it two or three or five or ten, depending on the size and level of complexity, and Cyclops thinks for once in all this wandering that he does have a good set of brains to ask to get the answer he is seeking and wanting and asking for.
So he tells them about Dingy, and he has to fill in details, for Michael and Rachel have no TV, actually they do have one, but they long ago hollowed it out and made a bookshelf. He describes to them her dirty golden hair, he describes to them her style, he tells them so much about Dingy that you have to squirt a smile. He tells them that he likes her, that he really likes to see her, but I guess he also startles them when he says he wants to be her.
“You want to be her?” Michael asks for clarification, and Rachel repeats the exact same question, but I won’t.
“That is true,” says the Cyclops. “So what do the books tell me I must do?”
And I won’t quote them directly, but I will tell you that they basically say what everybody else has told Cyclops up to this time. They tell him that they like him just the way he is, so don’t change a thing, don’t even think about surgery. They tell him that he should be happy with who he is and just stay that way, and they cite many book sources to reinforce the advice that they think is so very good, but which Cyclops would just like to bury under a pile of useless pages, somewhere inside that heavy textbook that could kill a head, he wishes they would stop their talking, he wishes their words were dead.
Cyclops looks at all the books and thinks about the matchbook he stuffed in his pocket, but he never does strike it.
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