Aisle Twelve

I thought about immolating myself on aisle twelve 

pictured what it would be like to cruise through the stretched gape maw of the entrance 

captured by cameras with that 5 gallon can without the safety s**t  

the one my mom got in Nevada, the big white one 

which would gurgle, four and half gallons of gas bought across the street at Safeway 

what would the greeter do? The checker-of-receipts? The eye-baller of short skirts? 

sit on his stool, or...; 

let's imagine I get through with my can, my gas, a cheap Bic lighter 

into the crowds that gather slack jaw or stubborn 

old bald sunspot man with a hole in his left sock, his wife standing as stone to view  

deals on Coca-Cola while his lips only wander and his arms hang like wood 

his eyes water, crowds piles as logs in a river  

and we wait... 

and that’s only aisle two; 

 

then little Linda who can’t flip you off right-handed 

hunkered behind her white little packages and time safe warnings 

blue eyes behind her glasses go wide as she watches me slide by the end of aisle 

jaw set, can gripped, eyes forward but there she is, there at the corner 

agape 

which is really what I’m shooting for anyway 

keeping watching me sweet Linda... 

a single Mylar balloon, escaped, glinting among the rafters half deflated 

teenager with tattooed tits pushing her kid with a steady beat of “no” 

passing the pastries weight of the can makes me shift to my left hand 

fat white guy big dude probably works construction nice beard considering beer 

dodge the hipster loafers looking at towels at the end of aisle 7;  

the gray blue hair lady who refuses to look in place with her costume jewelry  

Chanel number five and church nimble fingers who finally sees me and says 

“hey” 

“hey young man”  

but I’m not  

I’m a former young man slipping into the obsolete  

once a beast run free now being closed in a basket 

with white-painted slats and big box credit 

I ignore her and she lets it go, turning to get her discount tea and sacks of sugar 

Mylar balloon follows on the pattern of those big blowers 

boxy things jutting with their segmented faces towards the mill below 

and the white paint blown over everything quickly, the shadows of the beams exposed 

naked and bare like birth careless arches holding the structure  

no one bothers to cover them, to close the roof from the rest, factory from the floor 

deals and deals and meals and coffee and kids and screaming and mumbles 

and socks with holes and thin metal faces and endless wobble of tattoos 

and wafts of cannabis and arguing and coaxing and cajoling and the crux

and tits and tights and muscles and skin and bleat bleat and bloat 

and endless flow

like a creek that feeds the river  

which only ever feeds the sea; 

and its aisle twelve and I think of brave Thich Quang Duc  

who made an awesome album cover 

and the hum of fluorescent 

those rows of bars overhead 

relentless sighing matrons 

with their REEEEEEEEEEEE 

gas flows like a creek which flows to a river which flows to the sea 

only this time 

instead of an owner 

that ocean is me; 

little Linda 

beautiful Linda 

who lives  

beneath the hum 

who deals drugs  

beneath the hum 

who struggles with her mortgage 

and PG&E 

and a cat with an abscess 

who commiserates with her customers   

beneath the hum

all those dim eyes searching in the dark 

despite the hum 

waiting for a spark my spark;

little Linda  

with your bell weather smile 

and the crease of your neck  

which cradles your gold cross 

sweet Linda 

immaculate un-immolated Linda 

what do you make of your universe now?