It’s Black Friday again and I got no pay, and yet I feel the crave in me to spend. Where I’ll get the dough I don’t know. Knock over inconvenience stores, closed all hours of the day, like some urbane legend? Tease ads jail baiting? Cash registers filled with jingle juice and George Floyd dollars? Helpless hollers. “I can’t breathe. I can't breathe. I can’t breathe. Get your climate change knee off my eco-neck.” Or I could go rob the church. Find out where they stash the basket cash. Or bottle all the Holy Water at the door, wasted now on insincere dwindle-pusses. Rob Paul to pay Peter to pay Mario Puzo to play piano. Go to Paris, to Notre Dame, and steal the real deal gold-dipped crown of Jesus, in a vault somewhere now, maybe Sothebys. I feel like I need to make a mark this festive Christmas season full of pumped-in love, subliminal muzak that makes me sick to my “soul,” everyone going round with air quotes now, lost in the mall maze, the Irony Age, and Santa is a donkey pump this year, I see, five easy pieces of Judas gold. When I was a kid, so long ago, Ma bought me a Quixote windmill which I furnished with a pull-string Sophia Loren, buxom, and full of love for me. I went at her until a voice said: Tilt! When I was a kid, so long ago. Black Friday is here. Time to sell my “soul” to Satan. Note the sibilance and Satan gets no air quotes. There are horrors ahead, mall’s full of zombies. You know the film. Your money’s no good here. The gargoyles were supposed to guard us against the return of the animists, but failed. The fire at Notre Dame cathedral was set by Satan, smoking Gauloise, head sprouting horns, looking like Karl Malden in that American Express ad, that neoliberal con job offer you can’t refuse or leave home without, in Rome’s Inferno, where the whore Beatrice has burned down the “holy” nunnery, where goldfish Ophelias have drowned in the dead pool behind the sibilance grave where eels sizzle their saucy insouciance in a paean of sorts to fallen “Love.”
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