Mr. ME

Mr. Me sold out years ago. to his bank, to his bottle, to his short –term gain, . He would like to be the cause of bread, but alas he is white bread, self consumptive, flat and bland as yesterday’s dream.  

He is checkbook, a credit card, a test for even the most fastidious banker. He clamors for substance at anyone’s expense.  He feeds the unsteady spine that holds him in a world of stiff-jawed wives and rebellious children.

Master of the salesman’s pitch, the cell phone, the picture clicking supermarket, he insists he must live from one freeway to the next, a plethora of  rapaciousness, awash in the sounds of its own particular gurgle. 

 He is an American determined to be owned by someone else and he will win.