Automatic for the People

By | 1 February 2021

Shoppers, take this time to please your companions.
Right, left, right—obviously they take your attention
via clockwork sales talk. A drop of discoloration
is being processed when you talk to them—
lover, robber, gender, industrially colour blind—
magical are their actions to repeat the blooms
of <magnolia on marginalia>, high-price of intentions
under duress. If all good shoppers are careful enough
to be attracted to the whiteness of the lights, or to something
strange like Mambrino’s Golden Helmet, I would like
to think that life in a crowded place is clueless
about the appeal of mass nouns to the art
of small things like undeclared birthdays
and acupuncture points. Inside the fitting room,
there’s a hunk of love, all spruced-up with a groovy
sense of purpose; this I’m referring to all types
clothing as professionals, feeling the way
we feel right now, are available on site to serve you,
always. But what is fake measurement if everything
at this moment can only be claimed with payment,
starting from the alteration fee, tape receipt, invoice,
the repaired item with accompanying stub—
to your free time to talk to strangers, that is building
a relationship brick by brick? Bonuses, oh you see
dripping their milk nutrients to the floor
the inert clerk would love to suck clean
with his mouth-knitted shoes. All for customer
service and store convenience, for Professor Paper
Machine’s shiny happy people honouring the dance Sufism
of sutra lights, a teetotaling fallacy of tropes
for crab paste to not junk the scent of earth,
shoplifters of hearts hardwired into the machinery
of healing, of entrances and exits space-altered
by their ethnicity as the spell of philosophical
flowers embraces a technē that’s automatic for
the people
under the shade of the Plasticine trees.

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