.

The first time I saw Emily, she was stocking beer with a partner for United Beverage, in the same grocery store where I was doing a popcorn/peanut reset. She had on a green Notre Dame ringer t with yoga pants, dark, shiny, curly hair and a cheerful and friendly but easy disposition. It was like an electric rush, looking at her. 

I think our eyes barely intersected at all but we exchanged slight “hello”’s, just out of blind courtesy. I don’t think I even glanced at her bottom. 

I think it was the next time I saw her, in that same store, in Plymouth, she had on loose-fitting jeans. Our paths crossed at a different part of the store, and she gave a kind, friendly chuckle, with a smile, and proceeded past me. I remember the look she had in her eyes. It wasn’t empty, but it was as if searching, the product of a fruitless quest for purpose and vitality in everyday life, though perhaps not too demoralizing of a kick. 

Other days, she’d be in short jean shorts, and a little bit**ier, it seemed, in disposition, a little more stand-off-ish. But I felt good for her. It was amazing to see her carrying this variant level of vitality, in complexion, in eye opacity and in expression, based on what kind of clothing she was wearing. I mean, people do their best. She seemed like the type to go and enjoy a Leftover Salmon or moe. set at the Blueberry Festival, in the event such a thing occurred, or enjoy the live music venues, or record stores, back when they were still thriving and unifying the community. She seemed like a pretty good girl. 

The scroll has come in

And I am not in charge

As it apparently reads.

.

It’s funny, 

Though,

Because sometimes people

Still act like I am. 

.

It’s the eyes of resentment,

At my face as if it’s portraying knowing something,

Having been to some chasm of truth

And emerged as an altered state. 

.

I think of being in charge and

I think of all the incidents 

That happen around here

Around boarded-up buildings, 

Around

.

Blinding, impossible, white 

Eyes, I sit back,

In late September,

Letting a gentle breeze

.

Kiss the back of my neck

On a 75-degree day,

And I think…

He**, you know what I’m thinking. 

I navigated the various individuals, repeatedly, who would come into work with bodies and eyes full of tension and struggle, like this everyday enterprise were a beguiling dragon to slay, for them, of sorts. Over and over, little bouts of conflict would occur, not over anything semantic or tactile in the spatial realm of the universe, but rather just because our minds were driven to enact competition against those around us. I’d chosen kitchen work because I didn’t have to talk a lot and could be a cussing smart-a**. A lot of people saw that and hated me because of it. I had a lot of good experiences too, especially the free crab cakes and lamb chops on wedding days. Still, I should have seen it coming — the blue shift toward energy drink sovereignty, toward backwards-hat authority and toward the favoring of druggies who always need a ride and who screw up orders on their station, of course, sidestepping blame’s totality at the expense of all of us. There was the day the kid got a cramp. I told him, “Drink water… Cramps are a by-product of dehydration.” He replied, “No… I just gotta rub it.” I think he was literally afraid of drinking water. He probably would have willingly downed five energy drinks, had I provided them. Days passed, more half-naked girls walked through, more awful, fast-food-jingle music emanated from the speakers, and finally, the populace got what it wanted — the ability to mend a cramp without water. Granted, I haven’t checked in on them lately. I haven’t checked the local news lately. 

The rapacious force 

Of human functioning

.

Continues its expoits in Hooters as

A little kid,

Who kind of talks like he’s mentally challenged,

Goes up to the bartender 

And tells her that she’s beautiful. 

.

It would be certainly nice

If the parents would monitor this sort of thing,

Or just abstain from their imperial, maniacal 

Quest for glory in their everyday lives. 

.

Until then,

The awkward situations will abound,

At the expense of all of us,

In this day and age of scoffing at tradition,

.

Of going for it on fourth down,

Untucking our shirts and favoring

Pineapple toejam IPA 

From a bearded dude in Michigan

Over Bass and Newcastle. 

I am sitting in the bleacher section

In Wrigley field.

.

In front of me,

All of the objects look pretty 

Familiar to me. 

.

They all seem

Like things I’ve seen, 

Understood, grasped

And mastered. 

.

I just can’t think of anything to say. 

.

On the South side,

Through dust, through anger,

Through neon lights and urgency,

A 

.

Din of violence and torture 

Explodes into the nether

And I can feel whites of eyes on me

Raging at this life 

.

In fangs of being. 

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