I will show up every day at dawn like the sun. I will tumble out of my Yukon and up to the door like Jack Bauer on eight hours of sleep. I will be first in line or kill somebody. I will make it my Jerusalem, my Wailing Wall and Promised Land. I will never fail to be hopelessly flattered by my membership card which confers exclusive gold star, VIP membership like grace and makes the deluded losers at Sam’s Club look like the hell-bound bitches they are.
I will flash my card like a homicide detective. I will lash nine carts together, three abreast, to make a rolling wholesale barge. I will steer with a plank of frozen salmon. I will join the brethren of blockish white people with polygamist sect jumpers and hairdos. I’ll bring all fourteen of my children and cut them loose to buzz the store like electrons. I’ll call the store a jungle gym. There will be wholesale fun, wholesale chaos, wholesale despair, wholesale disgust and rage. I will not pay full price.
I will gorge like a Viking on free samples. I will find the table that’s dealing cheese and haunt it like a gambling addict at a slot machine. I will discover my children driving mowers through bags of spinach and broccoli, whipping each other with pork loins, passed out naked on a gay beach of spilled jelly bellies, comatose in a puddle of piss on a memory foam mattress, high in the rafters among the sparrows bombing shoppers with giant tubs of mustard.
I will save mountains of money on essentials: a popcorn trolley, enough limestone blocks of feta cheese for a pyramid, a can of live tuna, a fifty-gallon drum of non-dairy creamer, a musical casket, a billboard plasma flat screen, a duck blind and fourteen crossbows, a cascading chocolate fountain just like the Trevi in Rome. I will then make room for impulse buys: six eggs, a half gallon of skim milk, a DVD of Mamma Mia. All of it into my barge.
I will wait in the three-mile checkout line. I will not use my crossbow on the man in front of me who seems to have never encountered the monetary exchange system before. I will hit the concessions for the mortarish low-fat yogurt and discounted wieners. I will descend upon the Hebrew Nationals like Yasser Arafat on a hashish bender. I will submit to being scanned and patted down. I will almost confess to the Cuisinart mixer up my ass. I will come back to pick up my kids in the morning.
Eliot Khalil Wilson first book of poems, The Saint of Letting Small Fish Go, won the 2003 Cleveland State Poetry Prize. His second book of poems, This Island of Dogs, is forthcoming from Aldrich Press. He is the founder of The Wilson Review—http://thewilsonreview.blogspot.com