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Wal-MartThe neighborhood lies still at the face of capitalism's invasive repulsion
whose presence manifests itself as Wal-Mart overshadows the community
at roads end. So close is it's communal corruption that rocks thrown
might smash its windows in symbolic purification. But, there are no
windows. Instead, I blindly throw myself onto their parking lot to bake
in the hot noontide in token confrontation. I become the martyr who
speaks holy rhetoric for the name of all perversed by the mania of buy
and sell. A spokesman, I am, for the oppressed errant few who despise
mega this or super that. Those giant conglomerations of capitalistic
fervor that base profits not here but there. A windowless ominous presence
from hometown nowhere. I proclaim its block walls to be stone gates
from hell. Hell at the end of the street. On the lot, I broil in the swelter of sun and anguish, shoppers passing
by. Picking the gum from my hair, my vision blurs in the panic of revolution
at hand but no one heeds the call, no one notices. To arms!! To arms!!
But, no civil disruption commences. My eyes behold only mindless rodents
greedily pushing their carts. Stray cats in the stony afternoon blaze.
The humid air compresses my lungs to the point of implosion. I bark
forth with antagonistic fervor at the demonic pitch of one possessed,
then barnstorm the door. Charging full speed, I hit the doorway at the
height of rage then dive belly up into cosmetics. Grasping a plastic coated, shrink wrapped, bubble packed, bar coded,
and boxed bottle of serenity perfume, I arrogantly heave the bottle.
The projectile screams past display aisle 23 and onto the courtesy desk
knocking over the trade mark box of Lions Club mints whilst striking
a cashier fully across her acne encrusted face. The bottle plummets
to the floor in a glittering array of glass, fragrance and over utilized
commercialism. Swiftly, I am bullied into an awaiting corporate paddy wagon. I am
dragged, drugged and distended to the local police department where
a citation is promptly issued. Charges are drummed up and nameless uniforms
belch upon my face. I boldly assert to all present that it is a citation
of merit worthy of assuring my dismal place in history. Columbus could never equal a task of such worthy righteousness. Regretfully,
the desk clerk is not so pleased. He arrogantly forces his filthy hands
upon my throat. Spinning round, he lays the old Captain Kirk drop kick
across my chest. I fall to the floor drifting to delusion. The mambo jumbo jive of capitalistic fervor creeps over my fading soul with its sparkling styrene wings. Steadily, fate divides my freedom into unconscious catacombs of advertising bliss. Fantastic anathemas doomed to persuade the dreaming masses that emancipation awaits just one purchase away. In my fantasy, multitudes gather upon my naked body placing smiley stickers upon my skin. I become satiated with false pretenses and imitation store-bought rapture. Technologies gizmo incites the invocational jive and panic of all that was begotten by the blue light special. I wish nothing more than to be special. Instead, I am consumed as consumer. The willing heir to a multifaceted oversimplification of life as a metaphor for market economics. Now, in the damp, empty cell of precinct number nine, I transcend fate itself. Awakening to the soft glimmer of days last fading light, the neon glitz
of Wal-Mart's sign sends shock waves to my emaciated soul. Glaring omnipotently
down my street is the all American super store itself. The last drops of beer from my empty glass trickle onto the ground
where I awaken in my stupor. Still, I live. With steady heart, I sigh
the sigh of deep resignation at the battle never fought; too tired to
raise my fist and strike. All is business as usual.
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