Grim Girbaud
(Being a convoluted tale delving into
the sociocultural dynamics of consumerism
under the context of coming to terms
with the consistent commercial success
of an age-old Judeo-Christian tradition)
The bill is still hot in my hands,
Its spirit whiling away in some
cash register somewhere.
(A girl-woman at the storefront
cuddles a South Park pillow
hmmm, very Freudian.)
Brand-name-clad nits litter everywhere
(with their white teeth and
perfect skin and glossy hair,
with cellphones ringing crazily
to the tune of a John-Philip-Sousa march)
basking in the false lights
of these contrived spaces.
I feel claustrophobic:
peoplemillingaroundenteringstores
leavingtheminafrenzyof
trashinghard-earnedbonuses
whilechatteringandtweetering
likecuckoosinagoddamnedaviary
ofbrandeddelights.
Meanwhile
(The girl-woman near the storefront
straddles the South Park pillow
how so Freudian.)
I realize, this place doesn’t have muzak,
only the twitting and humming
of bungled salaries and splurged incomes,
to the tune of (all together now):
‘GHBassFerragamoMarks&SpencersGiorgio
RalphLaurenCalvinKleinPoloMarithéFrancois
Girbaud...’
So I sit, my feet aching, my back near breaking-
point,
(And the girl-woman in the storefront
fucks her South Park pillow
Freud need not explain.)
and I look in my wallet and the
t w e n t y p e s o s
still in it.
In a mall somewhere, five days before Christmas 1999
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