Selling seasons, labor’s fruits exchanged. Another morning, what can I buy today? I’m nothing if not a consumer. If I’m not clever, then I’m not special. If I’m not smart, I’m nothing. Still, so savvy. Get that special deal. Bargains. For sale, one existence. Will work for purpose. If I don’t spend a cent, I’m useless. Why bother even being an American? Paying rent doesn’t provide the same thrill.
That’s where we’re headed: houses, transportation, fruits, vegetables—all free. We’ll only work for more consumer goods. What a wonderful world. Shop ‘til we drop-out of empire status. No need to buy the staples, so buy an automatic stapler. It saves time! Time you could be spending shopping. And take a tablet or two. One for the pain, and one for the bathroom. Stare into sleeping phones and question your reflection. ‘Tis the season. Season’s giving us meaning. Give away your life. If not spending, joy is ending. Fork it over. Buy a fork. Buy a whole set.
There’s a house that was in the woods a thousand, a hundred, even fifty years ago. Back when sidewalks were the burden of bums and curs, not joggers and street lamps. There’s a house that used to house the old people who built it when they were young, but now holds hands with new numbers.
The astrology of radiology in incandescent dreams, not in the nocturnal sense but like those that lift up generations. Pillars under porches and planks for floors. Walk them and feel your feet kiss the ocean. Finally a moment of rest, a monument of rent from when things were bought and sold exclusively. Pickup in the driveway, pick up on the main motif. A house that held families and futures, that now holds on to transition like a tradition. Sad, but a hundred years ago those planks in the floor were growing in a forest, and now there’s houses there.
The scriptures of the voice, the banter of our imminent knowing. A strong course answered the explanation. Silence was baffled, so humanized. Shrouded under you, in any phenomena, you forget the star, imagine her in a world of waking sadness. Your doctors indicate your being above the fantastic depths of the senses. Not depths which could close the absurd body of dawn, but the positive division of a dream in great light. Would upsetting intellectual depths make our black rickets of veiled money the simply redemptive guests of one beautiful earth? Subtleties all. Inches of a dollar, the martyrs in the fabric of thought. Master the improvised to push any question to a doubtful silence. Realize saying the idea to produce the forced uttered archives suddenly removes the secret of any illusion.
She still strolled into storms and exited soaking, surprised, and somehow unaware.
The mythic black of the ceiling, eyes open or closed, a whirring nearby, a fan turning like seasons, night pending, and then day.