The Book of Prosthetic Prose

It was a porous prose although
it had a sense of purpose,
none of it superfluous.
The fluid distillation of a
man, it fit into her purse.

It was giving her ideas
so she would peruse it
on the sly, and didn't lose it.
It illuminated portions
of her brain so she could use it.

It functioned as an intellectual
prosthetic device,
the way it will replace your voice
with someone else's, while the thoughts
like flowers in a vase

are arranged more neatly than
your own. You're on your own
without a book, the voices moan
inside your head, you need an editor
to cut the drone.