Place of Birth/Birth of Place

I live in the organs of an urbanized body
            planned by the obstetricians of Exxon, Wal-Mart, Starbucks

            justified by the imperative to grow assets and maximize yield,
                        instigated by a price spike on the S&P 500

                        
born in an earnings rally and looming opportunities
                        to capture a share of increased expenditures as the consumer confidence index
                                                indicates soaring optimism.

A city is the embodiment of assets,
assets in their physical manifestation.

To make gains, a body must eat.
            The command is clear: construct more
                                    for the body
                                                to eat.

Good news,
says a P.R. rep posturing in front of the microphone:
            We’re expanding.
                        We’re distended

in the delivery room
            a ceremonial shovel, a groundbreaking, a small coterie
of local leaders under a tent

and the MC solemnly intones
                        
I welcome future additions
                        to this community: a strip mall and a gas station.
                                    When they’re breeched,
                                                a nozzle teat, a full tank (it’s Demerol),
                                                                        and limited parking.

            Free pizza on opening day
                        if you’re squatting under the stirrups,
                        if you’re an upstart gynecologist.

An outcome of de-regulation:
            Simply declare yourself a member of a profession,
            no licensing or degree.
            Once the bodies pile up, bad online reviews also pile up.
            Prospective clients catch on.
            They seek out your competition.
            You fail, and go out of business.

Failure is mitigated.
            Like a stent, policies prop up big business.
            A textbook informed me it’s not social engineering.
Yes, it is.
It’s not a conspiracy theory.
            It’s right in front of you.
                        No, it’s in you.

Deep in the belly, an enterprising ova.
            A new 24 hr. supermarket
                                    crowds the viscera.

Earth movers dug deep and pinched a nerve.
15 square blocks lost electricity.

Back up generators kicked on,
saving perishables from destruction.

Deep down, I know I shouldn’t shop here.

Observe my behavior. It reveals a preference. I want to shop here.

                        I’m impressed.
                        They have a sizable magazine selection.

Row after row, glossy covers honor the achievements of celebrities,
wealthy, the upper class,

happy and ephemeral as these rows of magazines and periodicals.

On a larger scale and on a longer
timeframe, 24 hr. supermarkets periodically age.

            You look old, rundown, and people avoid you.
            Close for good. Shut up and putrify.

Urban dereliction is not an accident.
Rebirthing a property happens after decay rots out all the value.
A cheap purchase leads to a good return.
The effect is timed to last the duration of a cycle.

There is a crest, a half-life, success begins to wear off.
The uterus distends and presses the bladder.

The whole rain storm decided here is the spot.
Choked stormdrains gargle back water they didn’t want.

At a deep check-out line, seized by anxiety,
                        my whole world stops.

            You don’t have a world. What you have
                        isn’t whole.

An open sign is most of the entire sky, envisioning in me a bright, high current arc and
do I have a choice? Or this is a choice and I’m brain fried?

After dusk, the law requires headlights. I forgot.
Is that a siren?

Outflanked by a flank steak, shunted
in a cart, my dinner is stranded, uncooked
            in a parking lot.

            Don’t top it off. I’ve had enough.

When it’s embryonic, it should be a short stint. Don’t stay here, it’s incomplete, a couple of
thoughts, a promising start.
Is it?

An ink and paper meiosis, a price
per chromosome

            and here it is
                        a newborn receipt.

            Even an accident is litter.

Come home when the wind stops.
Come home to a pile in a roadside ditch.


Recently, T.W.’s writing has appeared in The Shore, Detritus, Harsh, Cav Mag, Selffuck, and Misery Tourism. T.W. tweets sporadically , and is the proud curator of a haphazardly curated blog
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