Everyone's a walking endorsement--
a brand name for an identity,
a cross-stitched tag for an image.

WASH WITH WARM WATER, your indirect false worship.
USE MILD SOAP to cleanse the marketing embedded deep beneath your skin.
DO NOT BLEACH the somber lies you blindly wear.
IRON FLAT your dreams, because you sold them to Calvin Klein and Starbucks.
TUMBLE DRY LOW your memories, for you are a corporate slave-soldier.

Welcome to the dry cleaners of the omnipotent advertisement that is society.
Apparel is always promotional.
Too bad individuality isn't.

© Copyright 2008 Joe Bilog

I was driving down Route 66, burritos on my mind and a stomach hungry for thought. It was late but hunger prevailed against lethargy, and here I was driving towards Del Taco. The streets were empty, and I was relaxed. I felt so free to just think - the lights were out around me, but man, Vegas would envy the festival of thought right here, inside this metropolis between my ears. Five miles, and no sign of Del Taco. Did I go the wrong way? Shit, I did.

Red light. Green Light. Go.

And so I continued on, the only other street it could be on. I thought of her. I always think about her. I thought about how much I wanted things to change. But I had to be patient. I thought about the smile only she brought onto my face. I wish she could be here with me, sitting in the car with a trafficked mind too, and in an instant a conversation would give birth between us, immersed with our overflowing ideas and colorful banter. I wanted to create a world with her; I wanted us to beautifully destroy each other, to create each other. Damn! It wasn't on this street either. I decide to just settle for Taco Bell. After waiting ten minutes, they tell me that they're out of rice. I take my cognitive cash back and decide to find someplace else to get food.

Red Light. Green Light. Go.

Ralphs closed twelve minutes ago. Damn, I've already tacked on ten miles on this midnight journey. Albertsons is closed too, and at this point desperation is running high. I pass by three cop cars surrounding a scene of four officers arresting two drug dealers. I wonder if they had burritos on their minds, if they ran into a detour in a quest for the food of thought. The streets are empty, and I felt like speeding because all this thinking, all these wonderful thoughts are making my nerves dance, and I go. 120mph and it's still not keeping up with my thoughts. Of her. Of life. Of these trees, these lampposts and these lights turning into a melting blur around me.

Red Light. Green Light. Go.

I wasn't having any luck finding food, and the streets were growing tired of my wandering. I decided to go to the hole-in-the-wall Mexican joint near my house, a three minute walk down the street. I burned twenty miles of gasoline and thoughts for a restaurant three minutes away. But I didn't care; I had everything on my mind and nothing in my stomach. I ate, and waited for the thoughts to digest.

© Copyright 2007 Joe Bilog