I'm kinda hungry.

People take vacations to the Mall of America. It's surrounded by hotels of every ilk; from the swanky to the seedy. The mall itself, from the outside is one ugly hulk of parking garages and angles. Half-assed landscaping and American flags. Shuttle buses rush backing and forthing to any of the four main entrances; old, fat, pasty white middle Americans - and their cookie cutter MTV/X-Games/hip-hop offspring depart empty handed and embark with bags from all the stores you find at any of the other seventeen million malls found from sea to shining silver dollar.



Inside, it's the most depressing place I've ever been. Worse than any two-bit casino in Reno or Atlantic City. Worse even than river boat casinos in East St. Louis. Mall of America is a big mall. Five levels. Amusement park. Gap. Victoria Secret. It's a big "So what." I took my camera to maybe get some killer black and whites of old, fat, pasty white middle Americans - and their cookie cutter MTV/X-Games/hip-hop offspring...shopping. I took no pictures.



Yeah, personal shop-bots. Teen to twenties bleach-blonds to smile broadly and pace your personal shopping experience. You book an hour, shop-bots help you shop forever. The exits aren't marked. Why bother leaving if you still have money or haven't maxed out your thirty-two credit cards that you were pre-approved for sometime back when? Don't forget the food court.

Dearest Rich,



You see, I love your Ween.



It's always been hard for me because I've always considered Ween to be your band. Like in any relationship, individuals bring something in. Flatware, CDs, the VCR, a dog, nipple clamps, etc. You always shared Ween, but it was always somehow yours to share. Then one day, I took your Ween out for a spin and fell in love with your Ween.



You never complained and even graciously encouraged me to snort your Ween. But, I always felt a bit guilty. You know...awkward. I didn't want to schnebble all your Ween or nothin', but once I ate one, I couldn't stop.



So, thanks for letting me smoke all your Ween, sucka. I keeping it all for myself and not giving any back.



Your pal,



-tyrone



P.S. Fuck!

When I hear young children cry

I’m saddened to a core place – biologically

Weakened in unimaginable ways



I miss my family

My reason to breathe

And take all these pills

Like I miss my innocence

fucking angels in my head

the madness of the obvious

07.31.03



The production-consumption ratio

Still unsettled after all these decades

Intense weight on psyches

And fatigue on internal components



Dreams

As black as void

As white as all

As dead as nothing

As past as history



Since it is always fiction

Contrived since inception

To be feared when not ignored

Reality is the real god



True as truth

One-quarter of a beat ahead

With full commitment realized

Blissfully floating above human topography

07.31.03



what is whole is

contingent of personal glossary entries

if space is time



experienced through spot lighted

cargo holds of hurling humans

eastward-bound together coincidentally



mind’s eye memories of hallucinations

but beautiful symmetry nonetheless

perfect logic clearly communicated



yeah, I’m terrified too

but, unfortunately, this is what we left you

if you can remedy, please

07.31.03



Prolog:



Walking sticks for a modern age

Skateboard shoes to mark my rage

Undercover mainstream tax-paying yellow belly

Forgetting at all to remember my age



Body:



Taking for granted the walking and talking

I kiss the rig of gods and

Try to put aside speculation of

Variants of fate without much success



What would change?



Often I awake to new realities

In different places alone or

Trapped in the prisons of mind or body

Empathy to a degree of unbelievable proportions



A hot, persistent, dry wind

Under blue skies in places

Where our society has created

Drawers in which we can

Hide all that appears to be untidy



Epilog:



Steely persistence after all the tears

07.31.03



You cannot help what's in your nature

Ahh, jah Rasta man sing-song life

From Damascus to Kashmir

Will I become so wholly eccentric

and woefully low self-monitoring?



Consequences of vanity run amok

With no restraints tied to ego

Or class or career



Just as long as I remember

To wear pants on a daily basis

And remain mindful of clichés and

Refrain from singing aloud too often



Since it was all over even

Before it all began

My efforts can be relieved

Of the burden of giving

A rat’s ass

Minnesota Blue(s) 07.30-31.03



Dying

All inside going deeper now

Heros not what they used to be

Drooling wizards of the north star state

Trapped like visitors to new planets



Shopping

With heads buried in sands

Sanctioned by the president and the other Hitlers

My very worst enemy a codependent me

Wanting without the why-ing



Bleeding

All ideas opinions beliefs creativity

From my anus

When the toilets do not flush

And snacks are forbidden in this motel



Hiding

From the masses of truths

Of the reinvented American century

Only to awake alone and sweaty

And so fundamentally detached



Running

Concentric circles around the

Moon and the sun so red

Suicide and chronic depression are

Only theater for drama queens