Keep Talking

What do you know? Went to the big city this morning, to do our monthly shopping, cash in our chips, to the Foulmart folks, where the desperate chic gather...to stone themselves, on the brilliant bling, of our visitation. Ha! Nah, we're just as ragged, as the other babe's...dumped in dumpster'sville, left to die here too.

This poor little town. It's no city, but it tries hard, hard to stay alive, where all that relates you...is the same suffering poverty. They live! They live, among the grocery isles, the sporting goods, the lingerie, the butcher's frozen meats, of great value. It's easier to find them here. Your 'shades' wont make them visible. A terse conversation will.

They love to have the last word. With me, it was just 'four'. "Excuse me!", she bawled, like a haughty heifer, destined for the prime beef isle. "Scuse yourself!", I thought...to the ugliest old 'dike', I ever saw. "Keep talking.", she uttered, threateningly. She passed me by. I thought it strange, and didn't really grip, what I'd bumped into, for half an hour or three.

Well well. I got someone's attention, now I see. Doubt my conjugal, ever caught the vibe...right there beside me. On the other hand...you never know.You see, these ones...they wouldn't be 'caught dead', in this box store mausoleum, of sub par products...but they wouldn't mind if you are, and they watch.

They know you all by name, they know...you're all the same, same stuck, confused and fukt as me and they watch, as watcher's do, and they mark us all...for the 'master's' watching them, and live in fear of some other pain...if they don't come through. I felt that guy behind me, after the old bitch barked, closer than a Saxon to my ass...pray, I wont bend over to fast.

To my rear, he pushed and he pushed, like a dog humping at the register. I turned, but he wouldn't look me in the eye, for his limp intimidating gesture. He just kept closing in on me. Over. We rolled our cart away. I knew, by then...it was all of a piece, and as we left the town...I noted the stark white trucks, at every pole, and telephone, and internet hub, wiring up their chicanery.

Something going down, in this poor little town today, and 'they' sure as hell, don't want me explaining. They watched us go, antennae shook, as we went away. What could you want, of this lost little place? So...here I am, asking you, as you 'told me too'..."keep talking."


Written by Bruce James Clyde 2016, at Deming, New Mexico

Art: google pic