May 19, 2007

Among the aisles for biscotti, darts before me
one Darien Aryan: nose aquiline, hair blonde,
complexion ruddy from repetitive ski-sunburns,
(perhaps sailing) a hint of blossoms from gin-drops.

Next aisle, take the working poor: unisex nose and ear piercings,
sweatshirts for Orange County Choppers, obesity, bad food.
For men, hair close-cropped; for women, whatever men wear,
baggy denims, deep pockets, perhaps Insane Clown Posse tees.
Early 20s, with children. Man’s job? Warehouse maybe.

Class resentment, to granolas addressed, personified by girl
with tie-dyes and dread-locks, festival trustafarians.

Subaru Outback-driving, summer campers, prep-school habitues,
grown to slummers, guitar-slingers. Or Bard artistes, with hauteur or auras.

Like heros Slipknot, I decapitate between the vertebrae and skull.
And when I’m through, they’ll need to wear a crown of spikes
to keep from bumping into fatal walls or door-jambs.

The ruling class: [unreadable the disc].
But for granola: Nepal’s the place.
For our nose-pierced friend, fingering corn-dogs
in the freezer aisle, only home can be imagined.

Could fame bite, as it does rappers and playmates
viewed in passing while surfing channels: OC or Florida.
Wherever I can wear my gear beneath the palms.

What’s the airfare to this virtual battle-space
Where artistes and granolas are punched with impunity?
Anything with beaucoup fast-food, crows,
thistles, pit bulls and septic system’s cool.

College girl granolas go to Nepal after Bard,
goodie-two-shoes help cripples cross the street for resumes.