Onomatopoeia Wal-Mart Prose/Poem wig out. |
I would like to do makeovers for Wal-Mart patrons. Me, some kind of mega-store plastic surgeon, queer eye straight guy Fix-it Man. I hear this one man wheezing “eeeeehhh, eeeeehhh,” every breath a labor, his hairy belly slung in a t-shirt and stretches that “Big Dog” slogan BIGGER. I want to chain saw off a forty-pound slab, right down the front “sloooosh” with a “shplop” on the floor, it quivers like yellow Jell-O. I’ll stitch him up quick with a green garden hose, make him a statue of David. I see the lady in pink Nike sweats rolled at the calves. This tuned athlete rides the little electric car of the immobile, “whirrrrrr” it just misses my foot. I want to pull her jowls behind her neck, use my industrial stapler, “tacka, tacka, tacka,” cover those open leg sores with spackle “squish, pat-a-pat,” put her on the cover of Cosmo. This briar vine lady has a hump back and a knee that goes “creaka, creaka, creaka,” side winding past the brassiere rack. They don’t make her size. I want to take my rubber mallet and “ka-whack, ka-whack” that knee in line and “ka-thump, ka-thump” that hump, train her for the Boston Marathon. I want to fix these people, but thirty minutes pass, and we still aren‘t fixed. I can never be the catcher in the rye. "Sigh," I think television lied. |