It's Funny

It’s funny how the world gets
all wound-up,
how contagious paranoia is,
who might stand to gain from it,
and whether or not they
think you’re getting in their
way, ironically, since they’re
so far from having a way they
wouldn’t know one if they
were standing on it,
but this won’t stop them
from putting you
in the crosshairs
if they think you’ve
become inconvenient.

He drops this morbid train of thought
when he notices it’s not
enhancing his courage.

He’s thankful the line is short.

After paying the ticket-taker,
he glances over his shoulder and
sees they’re still tailing him.

He picks up his pace.

His mind is racing
as he takes in the fairgrounds
with an efficient panoramic glance,
picks up the pace a little more,
starts to monitor his pulse and respiration rate
with the finely-tuned instinctual proprioception
of the highly-trained counter-intelligence officer that he is,
at least in this lifetime,
however shortly that might end.

The last few soaringly spiritual and
militantly ecumenical strains of
“Long Live the Second American Revolution” are
still ringing in his head as he peaks out
his adrenaline levels diving into
the garishly adorned “Uncle Maya’s Funhouse Hall of
Mirrors.”

Mirrors
of mirrors confuse at first
in the rush to get up
the spine of the place
to the heart of it.

He listens alone
in the quiet inmost chamber
lit by low green light;
but there are no footsteps following,
no flashlights swaying down the hallway
heralding hot breath from cold hearts
just doing their jobs,
bearing Berettas with silencers,
earning a living
following orders.

It’s funny how the world gets
all wound-up,
how contagious paranoia is,
who stands to gain from it,
and whether or not they finally
figured out the game is up,
the cover’s blown,
and the run is on.

When he wakes up
it’s morning and he’s a state away
in Nevada when he realizes he’s got
just the clothes on his back
and no I.D. that won’t get him
“indefinitely detained.”

He feels suddenly
inexplicably
completely
free.