Bloated Capitalism

From the title of this blog, it may seem like I am about to go on about how terrible capitalism is and use Marxist theory to defend the eradication of such a structured economy and emphatically explain my plans for the perfect utopia where everyone lives in peace and harmony. This will not happen because 

1. Utopia does not actually exist, the word means both "no place" and "best place" 

2. I actually have a job and therefore am involved in a form of capitalism and I like being able to pay for things 

3. I Love Meijer! It's a great store that I wander through often when I am bored, stressed, or hungry.

With that in mind, I am posting my poem criticizing capitalism. As I was writing a poem, where myself and my colleagues mapped out the rough draft, I noticed a particular theme that was recurring. The poem took a life of its own in a way. I made me think that just because we love something, does not mean that its perfect. 

Even if it is Meijer. 

 Superstore Chain

I have been standing here all my life

with stage lights burning

 the corneas of my eyes

branding my retinas,

a burning sensation of

dread.

 Blinding florescent lights

blanch and bleed all color of life.

I begin my work for Kmart

a pathetic greeting performance.

The Zeus of capitalism bloats

then burps erotically coaxed

customers. Paid with coupons

bought with sales.

Every promiscuous event

creates a godly offspring

housed in a Chinese factory

starving, underpaid

producing products

marked

with their gentle fingerprints.

Chainstore Olympus rises

Target, Meijer, Sam’s Club

Walmart, clouding my sight.

 Giants crushing the small civilian stores

leaving a river of numb workers

measuring their lives in cigarette breaks

buried in catacombs of cheep plastic. 

So I'm a teacher's pet...sue me

The great thing about college is that you can be buddies with your professors, and unlike grade school and high school, you are not seen as a kiss-ass (or maybe you are I wouldn't know) which is awesome because I love visiting Holmdene.
On my way up to Dr. Marhall's office I ran into Prof. Eberle and talked about the weekend, ran into Dr. Chesley and talked about writing and homework and then proceeded to my theology professor friend Dr. Marshall where I proceeded to give him shit for his smoking habits as we talked about literature, hipsters, and things that I should read.
He introduced me to an author by the name of David Berlinski who wrote "The Devil's Delusion: Atheism and its scientific pretensions."
I promised that I would read it over my fall break, but it looks kind of interesting.
No matter what your views are on any subject matter,you can't help but appreciate a well formed argument that leaves you twisting with your own ideals and beliefs about truth.
I frequently study things that I generally do not agree with, or that make me uncomfortable.
For example, I have a research project coming up and I have been toying around with the idea of doing it on strippers.Why is this? Because I "write so I can understand." not to be understood.
Nobody understands me, nor am I about to try and make people understand me.
But I do think there is a benefit to try to understand others, so maybe that is why I glut myself on anything controversial, I have the unreachable dream of being able to create a society of peace.
That will never happen.
But I do want to be at peace with myself,
and that can happen.

Holy Jeans

I will never understand the fad of holes in your jeans.
The reason why I buy new pants is because there are holes in my old jeans.
If you buy them with holes already in them, then you are just asking for your pants to get ruined faster.
Actually it is a genius business plan, give people a product that it already half ruined so that they need to buy a new one sooner.
And they're so expensive!!!!
Why? because they're cool? I thought we were over the whole 90's grunge teenager look. Apparently not.
They don't look that great on people either.
I mean they are fine when you are standing, but when you sit down, the skin bulges out of the whole as if its a blog trying to escape. And with guys its even worse with their incredibly hairy thighs!!! I mean who wants to see a hairy man thigh at 9 in the morning??
Not me. 

If I fail as a writer, I shall be a mailman.

I love getting mail.
And not just any mail, every time I see an envelope from school I know it's about to ask me for more money.
But letters in the mail, free samples, postcards, birthday cards, wedding invitations, thank you notes, all in the mail addressed to me in black ink.
And that exciting moment as you tear into the envelope, the paper fraying, perhaps marked a bit from its journey from the writer to my mailbox.
And opening the letter to discover its contents and the news of friends far away.
I write a lot of letters as well.
Everybody keeps telling me that the mail service is dying and that everything is boiled down to the digital way of communicating, but I am on a one woman mission to stop that.
No experience can match that of discovering a hand written letter in the mailbox.
Nothing.
so please if you would like to become my pen pal, e-mail me your address! I will gladly write you a letter, only please write me back, it is only common courtesy of the letter writing world. 

Lazy

I am really really really lazy today,
so I think I will post one of my favorite poems by Billy Collins

The Best Cigarette

There are many that I miss
having sent my last one out a car window
sparking along the road one night, years ago.

The heralded one, of course:
after sex, the two glowing tips
now the lights of a single ship;
at the end of a long dinner
with more wine to come
and a smoke ring coasting into the chandelier;
or on a white beach,
holding one with fingers still wet from a swim.

How bittersweet these punctuations
of flame and gesture;
but the best were on those mornings
when I would have a little something going
in the typewriter,
the sun bright in the windows,
maybe some Berlioz on in the background.
I would go into the kitchen for coffee
and on the way back to the page,
curled in its roller,
I would light one up and feel
its dry rush mix with the dark taste of coffee.

Then I would be my own locomotive,
trailing behind me as I returned to work
little puffs of smoke,
indicators of progress,
signs of industry and thought,
the signal that told the nineteenth century
it was moving forward.
That was the best cigarette,
when I would steam into the study
full of vaporous hope
and stand there,
the big headlamp of my face
pointed down at all the words in parallel lines.

I'm in love with my couch

I know what love is, so it seems silly to say that I "love" and inanimate object, but barring my family, the couch is the one thing that has always been there for me.
When I was home sick from school, I would snuggle in it and watch soap operas.
I napped, cried, sang, danced, stretched, slept, watched movies, TV, studied, ate breakfast/lunch/dinner (especially when I was all by myself) on my cozy, comfy, comforting couch!
I love it!
how can I not?
As I sat on the cushions today, after a tedious 12 hour work day up to my elbows in dirty dishes, feeling gross and ugly changing into a huge flannel shirt and comfy jeans, and I lovingly patted the pillows and said:
"That 'ill do pig. that 'ill do" And fell asleep.
Nothing says "love" like a well deserved nap.
obviously the couch loves me, and I love him!

What is "it"?

There is a really annoying phrase that people at my work CONSTANTLY say:
"It it what it is" and every time I hear I think.."Is what?"
What is "it"? I think we first need to decide what "it" is before we can say "what 'it'" is and is not.
Is "it" a noun? a verb? a situation? a dog? a horse? a chicken? disease? my mom? your mom? the world's mom? what is "it"???
And what it "is"? fat? short? skinny? bumpy? puce?
WHAT THE CRAP DOES THE STATEMENT MEAN! 
All I know is I am getting a headache just thinking about it.
I guess it is what it is!