Commercial Revelation “The story of the happening / Becomes the happening” ……………..– Charles Ardinger Consider the gift shop, sculpted unceremoniously into Every museum like an afterthought. A Starry Night bookmark Lazes languidly next to coasters featuring The David. Each collection of commemorative thimbles is alphabetized: Braque preceding Picasso, Pissarro following Monet, Rembrandt far from Botticelli, and lonely Van Gogh Almost always last. Hold the Dali thimble close To your ear and you can hear ants carrying drops of water Into a desert in which the torsos of naked women Neatly comprise an oasis. How much would you pay to Give irony a permanent home? This price tag is an Ansel Adams And that’s why the moon rises just above the dollar sign Mercifully. Most of the books are quietly dancing about Architecture, while cash registers ring their approval. Language sulks, because it’s relegated primarily to Giving warnings about what not to touch, or Asking for donations to restore another piece of art Meant to dwarf the few words on the wall next to it. At least the cashiers seem well read, offering The day’s first customer her change and Exclaiming “I will show you five in a handful of ones.” Discounts are available in the poetry section. Idolatry is an understatement. No fewer than 42 products feature some version of Matisse’s Dance I: posters, t-shirts, coffee mugs, lighters, and ink pens In which clothes adorn the revelers until the pen is tilted to Slowly undress the circle of women. There is a life-size Punching bag based on Munch’s “The Scream” Enhanced to include a piercing howl with each hit (batteries Not included). Last Supper action figures. An Icarus Yo-Yo. Salt and pepper shakers shaped like haystacks, water lilies, Irises and Campbell’s Soup cans. CD’s of music for Blue guitar. Sunday Afternoon play set complete with La Grande Jatte and working parasol. A shower curtain Emblazoned with the Mona Lisa’s coy smile. A woman hurries toward the exit, sack swaying Neatly as a Currier & Ives snow globe suffers The blizzard of 1864 all over again. Her receipt flutters Innocently down to the floor, another reminder That a body in motion tends to spend money. Her auburn hair brushes the tops of her shoulders as she Emerges into daylight, unaware that you are following So you can return the thin strip of thermal paper to her. Even when she drives off in her Mercedes Benz, you Still pursue her, receipt tucked under the hula dancer Languishing on your cracked dashboard. On the radio, Origami enthusiasts are folding dollar bills carefully into Quarter-sized bundles, each pyramid’s lone eye staring Up. The host says it’s crucial to place them face down Any time you want to sleep, or they will begin Colluding against you. Your quarry makes a right Into a Starbuck’s drive-thru. Since you don’t drink Overpriced coffee, you ask for the time. Confused cashier Ursula charges you 50 cents, gives you 5 dimes change, Says to have a great day! You continue south. Antiquarian booksellers flood the crosswalk Near Meadowlake Road, wielding first editions of Elinor Wylie’s Nets to Catch the Wind, which Came out a year prior to The Waste Land, but is in far less Demand. A bargain, you imagine, as you make a right Onto the highway, wondering where in the world This road will lead. In the rearview mirror, an angry Editor cuts down a banner that says “Reading is for.…” Some sentences never end. A billboard on the left Lets everyone know that Fritos were the only snack food In Plato’s Cave. In fact, a light has been installed to allow Nightly viewings of the great corn chip’s shadow. God, the word, is only once removed from God, Entity casting no shadow, as the recently added graffiti Reminds you. Philosophy, like religion, continues to creep Into everything, as evidenced by the radio ad for New “Archetype-O’s” cereal, each tiny complex of oats Generously frosted, and with a piece of Collectible Unconscious hidden in every box. Even the stripes Neatly dividing lanes feature bright sponsor logos: Icy Hot, Jiffy Pop Tarts, Goodyear and an XBox game called Need for Speed: Catch my Drift, from their sarcasm collection. The Six Flags 10 miles ahead offers discounted prices for kids Except on Saturdays, and based on the group pictured they have a Really good selection. Still, you don’t have time to start a family Right now, especially since the lady in the Mercedes is exiting. Usually you fill-up at Chomsky’s, because of what gas Purports to signify, but you follow her to the Shell station. Taking the receipt off the dashboard, you trail her as she Enters the Subway which doubles as a convenience store which Doubles (or is that Triples?) as the publishing office for Subscription Literary Review – that’ll be twenty dollars please. Currently all counter clerks are line-editing pieces for the issue on Rumi parodies, so you tuck your submissions away and browse. Every package of Hostess Ho-Ho’s comes with a free Autographed pocket edition of this year’s Ikea catalog, Making you question the Ding Dongs in your clutches In addition to the very origin of cream filling itself. Never underestimate the power of snack cakes Given the right circumstances. You pay for your fuel, Stash the combination receipt/rejection letter to be Used in next year’s taxes, and roll the windows down. Fluttering between the tips of your fingers, her receipt Floats on the breeze as you watch for her to exit Into an afternoon so beautiful you’re strangely Certain you’ll see it featured in an ad somewhere soon. In another minute, she finally emerges, still Efficiently drying her hands on what must be New 3-Ply Bounty. You approach cautiously, tell her That she dropped this back at the museum, awkwardly Liken your pursuit to something from Lord of the Rings. You hand her the slip of paper, and are turning to leave when She asks, without guile, if this is some sort of joke. She holds The receipt up and you see a thermal image of a beatific, Ruggedly-bearded man. “Jesus Christ!” you exclaim. In your mind, you review the facts: that picture Didn’t exist when you picked-up the errant scrap of paper. Entropy’s stock is rising. A cloud blows by looking a lot like Neruda in swim trunks, or maybe that’s just your imagination. Taking a moment to collect herself, the woman thanks you Laconically and speeds away. With nothing better to do You shrug and head back inside for a package of Ho-Ho’s. Gary, your childhood Sunday School teacher, calls to ask if you’ve Accepted Capitalism into your heart. You say “Yes” because you Really don’t want to disappoint Him again. An errant rainbow Nefariously beautifies the sky, until a plane’s trailing banner Eclipses it with an ad for a strip club called Let My Peephole Go. Refusing to give into temptation, you head home to watch a show In which people flip houses for a living. All the characters have Nicer cars than you, so you conclude that you must Go buy a run-down home and transform it from a Dali to A Wyeth. You’re certain that wheat will wave in the wind The moment escrow closes, but you didn’t account for The pocketwatch puddles, crutches in place of retaining walls, Elephants, long shadows stretching from stilted legs, Never expecting the destination to even be related To the journey. And the newspapers, dating all the way back Into the 1920’s, fill every room in leaning stacks, smugly Offering predictions in bold type of flying cars, jetpacks, Newfangled ways to remove hair from unwanted places. Eventually, you’re so engrossed in the newspaper Articles you just let foreclosure run its course. The bank Really likes the way you’re taking it, so they offer to Negate your penalties if you’ll appear in a TV spot for them. Exactly how you end up dressed as a dollar sign remains a Special mystery, but at least you’re able to pick up The dance steps in no time. Afterward, you decide to begin Liquidating your assets. Since you don’t own any stocks, You start with old photos. Several frame manufacturers offer Relatively small sums, but then a nasty bidding war Ensues for your family photo from 30 years ago in which Pantsuits feature prominently, all fabric festooned Liberally with paisley. You confirm the frame will be tasteful And finalize the deal, just in time to collect all the Compact discs from every shelf and head to the liquor store. It turns out, 1 CD is worth 12 oz. of anything, so you Nearly fill the whole car up, but have nothing to listen to Going back home. Your closet of As Seen on TV items Clears more than you originally paid, since many are Only available in pharmacies now, and often a prescription is Needed. The animated Titanic Chia Pet, which plays a synth Version of My Heart Will Go On, fetched the highest price Even though it can’t be turned off, since the Clapper in it Needs replacing. Last to go is your mustard yellow Toyota Corolla, the first car in which you ever got a ticket. Instead of driving away, you jaywalk to the donut shop On the corner and steal the aromas of sugar and yeast. Next you wander to the playground, spin the merry go round As fast as possible while perched on its edge, and then Lie back and watch the world spin a green and blue blur. As the earth slows, you have a thought: what if the idea of God Resisted people’s urges to use it like a Garden Weasel? What if Given faith, everyone just kept it to themselves? Belief is pretty Useless as a method of judgment. A grey felt fedora rests Mysteriously on a park bench, perhaps abandoned by someone Experimenting with loss. An ice cream vendor pushes his cart Near a family’s picnic, offering promises of Popsicles tingeing Tongues many colors. Desire remains our downfall. Suppose you were satisfied enough that you didn’t dream. Picture a night uninterrupted by flights that end in a heap On the ground, no more regrets playing out in archetypes Embodied by Freud or Jung. What if fear wasn’t The most lucrative emotion? An umbrella salesman Interrupts the reverie of some ducks with his rain dance. Clouds yawn above, having none of it. You stand back up And head east toward the closed Beanie Babies™ outlet, Leaving behind the empty swing set and teeter-totter, Letting wind wash over those remnants of childhood. You turn north, head toward the YMCA, friendly acronym Pretending to forget its origins – no one ever baptizes Random members during swim lessons (that you know of). Only when you’re in the whirlpool do you realize Faith is the bubbles breaking against your bare chest, Faith is what happens without asking, without Even needing belief. In fact, belief is a red-faced bully Reprimanding all who question him, demanding Everyone agree that the moon is just a hole in the sky, Draining each night to reveal the next morning. Belief Proselytizes its position to the point that nothing else Holds sway, and then faith is just a memo line Itemized on each check piled in the collection plate. Learning to swim took longer than it should, didn’t it? On the surface of the water, your limbs grew heavy. Somehow you had to learn to hold yourself up with Only the spaces between your fingers and toes. Perhaps you spent too long staring at your shadow Hovering on the bottom of the pool, wondering If you are truly original, if the flickering image below Could have adorned the wall of Plato’s cave. At least you accepted the magnitude of breathing, Letting air make its quiet argument in favor of life. Lingering in the shower, you remember Your first job: working nights and weekends Expressly to earn enough for a new book, baseball cards, X-ray specs, whatever had caught your attention That week. But everything surrendered to entropy. Ragged corners and frayed edges gathered dust. Even Hot Wheels™ broke down, lost tires driving Miraculously into the future. And before that you scoured Each coin return, scrounging for nickels and dimes Like a gumball addict yearning to turn that silver knob Yet anxious to discover the color and flavor of destiny. Itemized receipts for everything you’ve ever bought Need to be provided to get you past the velvet rope Downstairs, and into the Kingdom of Heaven, a club Underneath the YMCA that is so exclusive not even Salvador Dali can get in, and he’s dead. You sneak Through the throng, cup an origami dollar bill in your Right palm and approach the entrance. Shaking hands Is a welcome distraction for the doorman, so as he Ogles the folded green item, you slip past him into Unnerving darkness. When you emerge into the light Suddenly everything has wings – the door handles frozen In mid-flight, end tables poised for takeoff, chandeliers Nervously turning toward the floor. A Thomas Kinkade Explication of the crucifixion hangs above the fireplace. Feathers pirouette down from above, and music Furiously thrums like a hummingbird’s heartbeat. Astonishingly, though, no one else is there. Beside the dance floor is another gift shop, this one Looking like a murder of cherubs – price tags Yellowing on each winged thing. You slyly pocket A refrigerator magnet with the Sistine Chapel ceiling Reproduced in miniature. You slip into Nike’s shoes, Drop a few bills on the counter, and head for the back door. In the alley, the streetlight flickers and goes out. Nearby, a few strains of jazz saxophone argue with the night. Given enough time, everywhere is walking distance, so you Emerge onto the empty street and head due east, away from Retail angels with their worn wings and empty promises. |