Lit. Show

Merely passing by, my shaded loneliness is hooked

On the aroma of late-night mochas and cinnamon bread

Flashing me under fulgent stage lights—

Immortal Apollo for the insatiable insomniac.

“OK, you have my attention.”

I shuffle between conservative CDs and DVDs and LCDs;

With them, I become encased in the plastic aesthetics,

Swept off and drowned by the lilt of lip-sealed Sirens.

At first, the cardboard platforms embroider my peripherals,

But temptation overflows reserve,

And now my gawk transfixes on kinky titles in sexy fonts

Which scarcely cover their perky nuances—predictable indecencies of plot.

Served row after row are labeled cages

Where waxed spines flaunt their famous pimps and pleased reviews,

So that even a first-grader could judge by their covers.

Shoot the rehashed symbols from confetti cannons; pile on the glittering generalities:

BIGGER, LOUDER, BETTER!

So many options, so many fantasies to be fulfilled:

Erotic vampires, honest whores, criminal heroes…

I cull one at random, slap a crisp bill on the counter,

Look forward to scurrying home with my plastic bag of personal LIVE NUDE art

            from the greatest minds of the newest age of philosophy

                        stolen off the backs of cereal boxes.

But before I can take another step toward the lonely night,

Before I can throw myself upon the bed and strip open my prize,

Before I can have my way with words licked by millions of others,

Before I can cast its glutted shell under the sheets in the morning while I munch on stale cereal…

The smiling salesclerk prompts:

“Would you like a membership card with that?”