i-pod shuffles are wonderful, because i can create a soundtrack and just bounce about...relatively thoughtless and doubtless. something great about bouncing up and down on my heels at WinCo buying supplys for my community room.
something fun about it.
i shop for an hour, much longer than it would take. i see an overweight middle-aged woman on the way in who kidly moves her cart sideways to let me through. she smiles and i smile as the gorilla's song kick out a beat and for an hour i shop and then see her again. my cart has so much in it and i'm headed to the checkout soon but i can tell that she's spent an entire hour looking up and down the small cheap cosmetics isle and i dont loath her or dispise her or even find her anything but wonderful. i feel an intense pang of love for her and want to protect her from the monsters running up and down the insides of her eyes when she looks in the mirror and makes these attempts to pour some magic potion over it all to just start over or maybe never to have walked in that one direction. i bet she has a crutch and an excuse and she cry's sometimes because she's lonley and hurt and feels so bad when she reads the magazines with the beautiful young skinny girls but can't stop herself from reading them anyway.
i see a huge box of dorritos and a small boy who notices my tatoo and then later when i see him at the checkout he's holding his shirt up off the shoulder and looking at his muscles wondering what large black ink would look like on them because everything at 8 years old is about trying things on for size. my summer eyes look for women to stare at and i only find one, a muslim girl shopping with her mother. she has the headgear on but also jeans and a t-shirt and i wonder for a moment if she would return or at least acknowledge my glace if mom wansn't next to her. i wonder if she's a native african and if she has any other desires outside of marriage and kids. i wonder if, at night, she turns away from the black book on her bedside and shuts her eyes tight and touches places unknowable unfounded unallowable so sweet and warm and so fully hers the smell is like a bottle of indentity. brodie armstrong is screaming in my ears and the checkout person charges me for twice the amount of toilet paper than i really bought, but i don't mind so much and i'm not to be bothered to point it out. i dont want to interupt the playlist or the soundtrack of this life ive decided to live just now. the lady wears a 'this store is employee owned and proud of it' sticker and she's tired, ready for bed, ready for this life she's living to be changed by the car ride or the bus ride or the walk, and then the drink or the toke or the television or the diary or the moments that reflect who she wants us to see. a diamond runs through us all, and there are no malcut misjudged scratches. each impurity makes up the whole are it's own unique crust and edge.
on the way out the door the muslim woman slyly looks my way and i see in her eyes a vast invitation to jump into streaming ponds of sound or vice or flushing chance. i see then that she's already married, most likely has children, and is terribly unhappy. a skinny man with shaggy beard and naval tats buys three steaks and some beer and the small boy jumps at the chance to stage every second to not conflict with all the imagination it takes to be alive and small just like he and i are and will always be.
love
adam
something fun about it.
i shop for an hour, much longer than it would take. i see an overweight middle-aged woman on the way in who kidly moves her cart sideways to let me through. she smiles and i smile as the gorilla's song kick out a beat and for an hour i shop and then see her again. my cart has so much in it and i'm headed to the checkout soon but i can tell that she's spent an entire hour looking up and down the small cheap cosmetics isle and i dont loath her or dispise her or even find her anything but wonderful. i feel an intense pang of love for her and want to protect her from the monsters running up and down the insides of her eyes when she looks in the mirror and makes these attempts to pour some magic potion over it all to just start over or maybe never to have walked in that one direction. i bet she has a crutch and an excuse and she cry's sometimes because she's lonley and hurt and feels so bad when she reads the magazines with the beautiful young skinny girls but can't stop herself from reading them anyway.
i see a huge box of dorritos and a small boy who notices my tatoo and then later when i see him at the checkout he's holding his shirt up off the shoulder and looking at his muscles wondering what large black ink would look like on them because everything at 8 years old is about trying things on for size. my summer eyes look for women to stare at and i only find one, a muslim girl shopping with her mother. she has the headgear on but also jeans and a t-shirt and i wonder for a moment if she would return or at least acknowledge my glace if mom wansn't next to her. i wonder if she's a native african and if she has any other desires outside of marriage and kids. i wonder if, at night, she turns away from the black book on her bedside and shuts her eyes tight and touches places unknowable unfounded unallowable so sweet and warm and so fully hers the smell is like a bottle of indentity. brodie armstrong is screaming in my ears and the checkout person charges me for twice the amount of toilet paper than i really bought, but i don't mind so much and i'm not to be bothered to point it out. i dont want to interupt the playlist or the soundtrack of this life ive decided to live just now. the lady wears a 'this store is employee owned and proud of it' sticker and she's tired, ready for bed, ready for this life she's living to be changed by the car ride or the bus ride or the walk, and then the drink or the toke or the television or the diary or the moments that reflect who she wants us to see. a diamond runs through us all, and there are no malcut misjudged scratches. each impurity makes up the whole are it's own unique crust and edge.
on the way out the door the muslim woman slyly looks my way and i see in her eyes a vast invitation to jump into streaming ponds of sound or vice or flushing chance. i see then that she's already married, most likely has children, and is terribly unhappy. a skinny man with shaggy beard and naval tats buys three steaks and some beer and the small boy jumps at the chance to stage every second to not conflict with all the imagination it takes to be alive and small just like he and i are and will always be.
love
adam