Red beacon of thrift, next to Happy Teryiaki.
Shitting parking lot, too long and too short to be honest.
Sleet and snow and shit fall from the sky.
It’s raining like puppies and kittens,
with parachutes of course.
Nobody likes splattered puppies and kittens.
Sliding doors, they know just when I call,
Wet shopping carts, none even in the front.
All are wet.
I wipe them down with my soul.
My love goes to look at clothes
I gorge two hot dogs.
Reading ketchup packets.
Lycopene, corn syrup, tomato paste.
Lovers. Alvin & The Chipmunks shirt. Tight, tawdry.
Waxed floors shining and reflecting the composite lights.
A basketball rolls down the mile long aisle,
Lonely and forgotten.
Luggage locks, and Yoga mats.
Books on tape, self improvement.
I need this. Joel Osteen, Nickelback, Little Richard.
I feign reading, flip through a magazine, No Griffey in the M’s preview.
It’s a game, not a movie.
It’s a store, not a game.
It’s a life, not a store.
I’m in love with being in love with love.
Fifteen Obama books, half illustrated.
More shampoo than I ever need.
I wonder what Costco,
Has that I didn’t know that I need
Videogame kiosk, Celtics vs. Lakers. Up by thirteen.
Ends in first quarter.
Man yanks little boy away from ajacent kiosk.
Little boy falls down.
Man barely notices.
Flashlights, catfood, flimsy hammers.
Rugs that cost three hundred dollars.
On sale! 3.47 off!
Not a sale, after all, really in the scheme
Men with crooked jaws, and Seattle Seahawks shirts.
Leering at teenagers.
I wear a Seahawks shirt.
I stopped leering at teenagers.
When I stopped being a teenager.
Now I leer at adults.
I am in love with the love of leering.
And fifty bathtubs for three grand.
That’s a sale.
I find my love, she has found clothing.
I have an outlet adapter that causes cancer and birth defects.
According to the state of California.
Dash for food.
No ice cream sandwiches.
I sulk, this the reason of reasons for the trip of trips.
To the store of stores!
I chew on a tire.