Capitalism Kills Soul

“I work in corporate America.”
“Yeah, I used to do that.”
“Didn’t you feel like your soul was dying every time you went to work?”

I went to Wal-Mart today.

I went to buy groceries.

When I arrived, my vision was fine. But as the visual fluorescent turbulence began violating my eyes, I felt like I needed a new prescription for my glasses. Luckily, they had the “WAL-MART VISION CENTER.” I didn’t even have to leave the building with the lights that destroyed my vision to get my vision repaired!

After the doctor checked my eyes, I shopped around. I drove my cart like I was in the Daytona 500. I weaved in and out of the produce aisles. I squeezed between slow moving soccer moms in the pasta aisle. I even got some drift while whizzing around the dairy sector.

But that’s the only fun I had.

Mind you; I was squinting that whole time.

Well, after burning all that energy shopping,
I had to eat. Not to worry: McDonald's’ had a store in the Wal-Mart Store!
So I ate some super-processed slave labor greasy warm soggy fast American food.

I had to ask myself, “Did I eat those French Fries, or did I rub them on my face?” I wanted to clean myself off a bit. I thought that a nice haircut and shampoo was in order. Luckily, all I had to do was turn around and sure enough, they had a salon too!

The lady butchered my hair.

But she still wanted twenty dollars. I opened my wallet. Empty.

However, Wal-Mart had a bank! I went over and made a nice fat withdrawal. I paid the supposed “stylist,” whose own hair looked like a raccoon or a skunk had settled on her head.

“Oh! Wait! I’m here to shop!” I got right back on task by going out to the “Lawn and Garden Center.” They call it “center” like it’s all important. Like it’s the only place in the whole world where you could possibly get the stuff you need for your “Lawn and Garden.” But when I started looking around at the mezzanine and the shelves and the wilting flowers, I realized something: I don’t have a lawn. Or a garden.

I put that filthy grey cart into fifth gear and shredded my way back across the hundred million square feet store to the grocery aisles.
As I was searching for Banquet Frozen Fried Fish Fingers, I ran the cart into a freezer on accident. It collided with the door at such a velocity and with such force that I broke a finger nail.

I didn’t want to walk around the rest of the day with a hang nail. I glanced over to “Customer Service” and saw that they had a “Nail Spa” as well as the McDonald's’, the Salon, the Bank, the Money Center, and the check out lines.

I hurried over to the “Nail Spa” and those Vietnamese ladies fixed me right up.

Since I knew that I looked so handsome, I wanted to have somebody take my picture.

So I looked back, and they had a “Photography Studio” as well. I went in and they took my picture!

As I walked out of the store with my photos in hand, I got a headache from all the registers squealing like piglets ripped from their sow every time they scanned a new item.
Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep.

The doors slid open and a smiling lady, with oxygen tubes shoved up her nose, smiled and waved goodbye to me.

I stepped into the real world, which was bright and painful.

I opened the door to my car and turned the key to the ignition. No go.

Fortunately, Wal-Mart had a “Tire and Battery Center” too. They call it "center" like there’s no other place in the whole world to get new tires or new batteries. Well, they gave me a new battery; sixty dollars later.

After leaving the “Tire and Battery Center,” I realized that I forgot my groceries over in the “Frozen Foods!”

I checked all my stuff out with a cashier named Betty who probably gets paid $7.50 an hour to hear a beep every time she scans a product. I bet if she ever tried to start a union for beep-hearers, she would get canned. “Canned Goods are in aisle 4.” I heard someone say in a monotone voice to another “customer.”

After getting out to my car a second time, I didn’t even want to go home.

“Why don’t they have apartments at Wal-Mart? They already have groceries clothes sporting goods tire and battery lawn and garden photography salon nail spa bank McDonald's’?”

Why can’t I just live here? I could even work for Wal-Mart. Maybe I’ll suggest that they build apartments.

That way people never have to leave.





American monopolies and big business once feared Teddy Roosevelt because he swung “a big stick” at them. Isn’t it ironic that his stony eyes now survey a land that thrives on Walgreen's Sam’s Club Little Cesar’s Starbucks McDonald’s Wal-Mart ?

Comparative Divinity 102

Comparative Divinity 102
Isaiah 46.5 To whom will you compare me or count me equal?
To whom will you liken me that we may be compared?

Oh God! why would we ever try? We can compare you to nobody and no thing!
Our language fails us. Is there a human who even knows you well enough
to begin to describe you? Is there no thing we can compare you to? Is there
no person merciful and powerful enough that we can liken you to? Can anything
on earth give us a glimpse of your beauty and glory? Will we ever know you
in this life? If we can't describe you, should we even try? If we can't understand you,
should we even try?

Comparative Divinity 101

Comparative Divinity 101
Isaiah 46.5 To whom will you compare me or count me equal?
To whom will you liken me that we may be compared?

Okay, God. I get the point.
We can't compare you to anything. You are too
great awesome amazing beautiful glorious
holy mighty wonderful marvelous merciful forgiving.
We try to compare you to our dads, but we distort you
because they're definitely not perfect. A friend of mine
once compared you to plaid. He said it represented your
vast complexity. But plaid isn't beautiful: it's what preppy dooshbags wear (with leather flips-flops). Nor is plaid majestically grandiose. So that didn't work.

We call you lord shepherd teacher rabbi the great physician.
but lords sometimes exploit their workers, shepherds accidentally loose their sheep,
teachers can loose their temper, rabbis were human, and even doctors can't heal everybody.

Don't even get me started on the Trinity: the egg.
The son is the yoke, the spirit is the white, and the father is the shell.
but those things come out of the chicken's ass...and if you drop it
it explodes. so that doesn't work either.

Lament for Lakota

All day long i roam the city. all day long
i see the haggard homeless lakota.
they trudge through the alleys and
down the long railroad gravel.

Alleys fill every day with the the smell of
sweat and alcohol. the drunk homeless
wander and slump under trees and shadows.
but can i blame them? is there a better
place to sleep?

Because it is the season of economic fall,
the lakota homeless are the leaves on this
problem tree. they dry out and change color,
the brutal north wind of white man tosses and swirls
them on the broken concrete; only for capitalism
to trample them under foot.

Before, they owned the land. but "owned" doesn't do them justice.
they loved the land - the fed the land - the land fed them.
mother earth and father sky met and loved
their lakota children - their lakota children loved them.
they were one with the land --- the swaying prairie grass -
the dark thunderclouds roaming over the hills like the bison -
the sunlight glinting off the rive - the tower of the bear (not the devil).
the land was their soul: and we dump our filth on it everyday with
garbage exhaust buildings tourist traps highways and the edifice of white man.