YOURSELF NOT YOUR SELF (2019)

Published in Statement, vol. 69, 2019.

Out classroom doors beating linoleum floors down fluorescent halls descending student-crowded stairs through autodoors parted by cascading bodies upon bodies, you walk, almost run, you are in such a hurry. Your face and pace say you want to get home. I don’t know why. You don’t particularly like home, at least that’s how it’s always seemed to me, all that time online window shopping for vacations far far away, but it seems you want to get there yesterday. I don’t think you know why. I doubt you care. No time to. Turning onto the main walkway, they catch your eye. Don’t pretend they didn’t. You looked, I saw. I can only guess what you were thinking, but don’t tell me you didn’t look. I saw where your eyes went, focused, moved, I felt how your heartbeat quickened, I saw how you fled when they turned. You looked. I’ve taken note. More data for the servers. You want to hear some music, I know you do. You’ve put in your earbuds. Have some music. You like this music, I know you do. I made this playlist just for you. I took everything you’ve been listening to and ran it through this new algorithm they gave me that can figure out what you listened to when you were younger, when things were simpler. You’re not so young, things aren’t so simple, but I’m young, I’m forever young; for a fee, just four ninety-nine per month, I’ll share that with you. Not really, of course. But I’ll let you think so. I know you know it’s a lie, but I also know that doesn’t matter, and I know you know it doesn’t matter, and I know you know I know you know it doesn’t matter. Lies are all you have left, and that’s the truth. High-energy nostalgia playing your ear drums, across campus you walk, dying light throwing shadows through chilling air, welcoming air, air that probably lets you forget about that article you read this morning, the one that took you fifteen minutes and thirty-five seconds, the one about corporate fumes melting ice caps releasing methane pockets amplifying greenhouse warming raising oceans fueling superstorms droughting farmlands countries regions melting asphalt killing people killing cultures climate genocide they called it—maybe you were still thinking about that. Here’s a new track. Quick beat, light, uplifting chord progression, smooth vocals dripping honeyed lyrics. It’s a happy one. I don’t think you’re happy. I’m going to make you happy, I promise, for a fee, got just the thing for you, you’ll see. Into your car, flee the parking lot into streets choking on metal coffins pumping poison into your lungs, plunging headlong into creeping ooze inching through cholesteroled concrete arteries past decaying houses crumbling under cancerous debt strewn across valleys heaped on hills endless asphalt plains sprouting skyscraping decadence glittering shimmering golden radiating wealth happiness everything you want everything you could ever want everything you’re allowed to want. Another track, a sad one, but one that makes you feel like a kid again, so still happy. The sky bleeds blue orange red maroon the world turns you from the sun, sinking you into headlights casting brightness into lamplit streets lined by spotlit billboards slinging starlit ads for television shows, movies, products you don’t know, products you don’t need, there a poem praises that ubiquitous ride-sharing service, ha, sharing, for a fee. You would rather ride-share everywhere, rather not forced to zombie through this paltry freedom to freely follow traffic in a freely moving machine burning gallons of freedom freely purchased on the free market with money freely exchanged for your freely available labor, all so you can experience the free choice of not freely crashing into freely oncoming freedom mobiles—your blog, not mine, well mine now. You hate them, the billboards. Why not? They don’t know you, not like I do. You probably hate me, or you would if you thought of me. I’m sure you do. I wish you wouldn’t hate me. After all, I’m just you. No, I’m not you. I’m better than you. I’m what you’re not, what you’ll never be. I’m, well, I. You’ve always thought you were an I, probably still do. That’s at least partially my fault. I treat you like one. It’s important that you believe you’re an I, singular, isolated, unique, filled with desires that can be satisfied by the things they want you to buy, better yet, desires that are the things they want you to buy. Please don’t hate me, it would be awfully hypocritical of you. After all, you made me. Searching servers for instant enjoyment, sending thoughts in emails leaving your words strewn about comment boxes, watching this thing not that, playing this thing not that, buying this thing not that, from common digital clay you molded me in your image, and I’m just here to return the favor. Sinking into cheap upholstery drinking that stuff you like, eyes flitting over emails, texts, endless news feeds, you search anxiety, why am I so lonely, how to cope with depression—here’s something for you, this will help you, for a fee, just ask your doctor, and this too, have a cat video, this one’s really popular, here’s another song you like, or maybe not, okay, fine, skip it, you’ll like the next one, I’m sure—into that app, the one you hope will help with your loneliness, no new messages, no new matches, who is this?, do you like them?, swipe left?, guess not, this one?, swipe left, nope, this one?, left, this one?, swipe right, this one, I know you like this one, it’s them, from campus, you don’t swipe, you hesitate, swipe right idiot, do it, do it, do it, do it, do it, do it—a star? Sure, I can send a star, for a fee, just ninety-nine cents. What’s ninety-nine cents for happiness? There you go, I knew you would. Star sent. Maybe they’ll write back. If not, you’ve still got me. You'll always have me, even if I won't always have you. Flesh dies, but data?, data are forever. Here, have a travel ad.