Islanded stacks
of canned
motives,
fragments
patched, into jerky
green symphonies
of pleasantries—
"How
are we?"
"Are we
finding
everything alright?"
Alright.
Fine. So I'm a little
over-
aggressively
air conditioned Mr.
Nice Guy.
Mooney and glowing, to me,
there's no
discernible difference—
between
what they say
and
who they are.
But fine,
for this one,
by necessity,
no discernible
difference, either—between
who I am
and what
I buy.
