.

And the incisors

Wielded by the populace 

Are evident

.

In the general manager’s

Panicked, blinding 

Eyes, his

.

Disposition prescribing 

The cosmological

Antithesis of family and culture

Within a social interface

Very much the creation of capitalism. 

Did he do too much acid? 

Wow, I’m shocked.

.

That’s the worst drug you can do. 

.

Yeah, you know what’s dope,

But you don’t know

Who YOU are. 

.

And you probably can’t even 

Enjoy your own creations 

Because you’re living on 

Borrowed time, you’re 

A slave to your 

Truncated sense of self

Putting it 

.

All on the line for the 

American GDP after 

Assassinations and moon landings. 

Over time,

You learn to hone,

You learn to perfect techniques,

And it’s hard not to be ostentatious

When every person lays claim to your identity,

Lays claim to the shape of your psyche.

.

We live in a world that requires money,

And banks are institutions which hold money

And are also for-profit businesses,

Which is certainly a baffling thing to consider. 

.

When the bank guy calls me

Trying to sell me a service, 

I’m just out of work

On my break. 

.

I pick up the phone,

And talk to him roughly in the manner 

In which I’d talk to a car mechanic,

Which offends him,

And doesn’t offend car mechanics. 

.

I note his disappointed, somewhat deflated 

Tone, and I get upset,

So I guess I am an empath after all,

Faced as ever with this boorish 

Mountain of alchemical deception. 

The blue and off-white yin-yang

Sank slowly to the ground

Amidst a vituperative lack of 

Ornament and good will. 

.

I waited for 10 seconds or so,

Like a scenester anticipating some sort of culture,

Which admittedly is usually attached to hegemony. 

.

The next manifestation of the universe

Was a big, hungry, angry, red fish,

Looking desirously up at the yin-yang

With sharpened, glistening teeth. 

.

The universe was always recreating itself,

Always forming into these oblong,

Ludicrous beings with hungry bellies

With sacrifice the only

Asset in our wallets today. 

Suicide doors dude

Really makes you realize

How many grease-balls there are

In town

And how the waning days of

July and August

Will always just encompass

Their frustration in their

Name-brand clothing

You could pick apart

Like an antique clock

From the planet Neptune

 

Oncologists flood the strip malls

And

Your inner mayhem

When that 47-year-old dude

Makes out with that 24-year-old girl

Should be lucrative for them

But it’s appalling how you truncate free love,

It’s white-trash and antiquated

How you reside within these asinine rules to live by,

As yoga pants and warheads

Bulwark our GDP.

 

When the fashion statement itself

Is the victim of my internal quills,

Consciousness becomes a hazard

And expedited distraction

An illuminated item in demand. 

.

Still, it’s in their eyes. 

.

They play the game — 

The whole thing is still a phenomenon

To enough of an extent 

In their minds

That their gazes narrow and their 

.

Voices mouth out 

Purposeful constructions

To efface Charybdis 

Under neon lights. 

I’m in the cell phone shop and the dude is doing it in style — a heavy-set Hispanic chap of about 30, with a gentle demeanor, describing to me the condition and potential of my phone. It’s a unit that looks like it’s been run over by a semi-truck, roughly. He’s got a shop about the size of a dentist’s office lobby, with about 60 different sku’s of phones and cases on the wall. The only person in there is me. I feel kind of bad for him, suddenly, envisioning his imminent business demise, and think about the possibility of using all this space for a little flat-top lunch eatery. Wouldn’t that be ironic — the Hispanic in a button-down shirt, talking to people with a gentle demeanor and the Gringo cooking nachos and quesadillas? 

He does a little research on my phone, goes to his little back laboratory for a little bit, which is just an open area 10 feet behind his desk, and comes back pretty much singing the death knell of my phone. But I can get a new 8 online for $200, he says.

He’s getting my phone ready to give back to me, finalizing the plans, and this heavy black girl comes in, and, while I’m talking to the guy at his desk, and in heavy breathing, starts ranting about her phone, interupting our conversation. She doesn’t really seem angry — more just wielding of this maniacal sort of focus regarding her product within the American economy, ironic, again, given her garb of spandex pants and tight workout shirt that’s way too small for her. 

The thought enters my mind to start chewing her out. 10 years ago, I undoubtedly would have done just this, and then it’s another tab to keep open in your mental Chrome browser all the time, it’s another person harvesting homicidal thoughts of you, when they gauge your persona and skills in articulation. I sit back down, nodding at her when she makes idle commentary at me, which if course, is delivered at approximately 100 decibels. 

When she leaves, temporarily, after not getting anything done, I voice to the retailer, “I was so close to chewing her out.”

He laughs. And we all feel a little bit better, until she returns again, looking at us with this senile, glazed-over confidence and ascribing the utmost importance to her phone within the eye of the universe. 

And I feel like this is only the beginning. I feel like I’m looking not only at the face of the 2020’s, here, but the 2030’s, 20… eh, I’m rambling. Anyway, I’m happy as a little mouse with my little cheese in the corner, and I thank the dude and get out of there. He doesn’t charge me a cent. I know I should have tipped him 10 or 20 but I’m flat broke. Plus, I’m a little addled from that loud girl who’d barged in and interrupted us, who, mind you, was decidedly not my type, her primary shortcoming of course being a little “unstoppable today” for my tastes. 

The populace itself is degraded to a vulnerable brand of detritus

After the passing of time,

The propagation of man

Into the open spaces

Where psychological need replaces

What was once an idyll. 

.

In my car, I sit, persecuted,

Stalked and hunted 

By a name tag with a face and

Incisors bent on order

In a world that’s been prodded

Like livestock. 

The patrons walk into the bar,

Caulked smiles occluding eyes

Of dark, uncertain desperation. 

.

In general,

The behavior tends to be uniform,

With mimicry informing most

If not all acts and

Degradation of others a pressing,

Pervasive concern. 

.

Dark, mocking

Eyes scroll the list of taps. 

.

In minds, thoughts

Race back to big, 

Shiny objects, to

Times Square, 

To any number of figures

Dressed in name brand clothing and

.

The choice is made

As a cultural statement,

Perceived as a broad, fervent

Stroke handling

What kind of person the customer will be 

.

By engaging in the 

Theoretical, non-tactile

Act of ordering a beer. 

..

<!– Google Tag Manager –>

<script>(function(w,d,s,l,i){w[l]=w[l]||[];w[l].push({‘gtm.start’:

new Date().getTime(),event:’gtm.js’});var f=d.getElementsByTagName(s)[0],

j=d.createElement(s),dl=l!=‘dataLayer’?’&l=‘+l:’’;j.async=true;j.src=

‘https://www.googletagmanager.com/gtm.js?id=‘+i+dl;f.parentNode.insertBefore(j,f);

})(window,document,’script’,’dataLayer’,’GTM-5KV22KW’);</script>

<!– End Google Tag Manager –>

<!– Google Tag Manager (noscript) –>

<noscript><iframe src=“https://www.googletagmanager.com/ns.html?id=GTM-5KV22KW”

height=“0” width=“0” style=“display:none;visibility:hidden”></iframe></noscript>

<!– End Google Tag Manager (noscript) –>