Poetry: Third recitation prior to the consumption of organic psilocybin

Each space in the mall is rented out by a year.
You can visit 1977, or 1983, free of charge. Malls
are finally good things. You can buy the soundtrack to the day
you first got laid and eat again the meal you splurged for
at the restaurant you couldn’t afford
but went to anyway. It was prom. And even
if you weren’t alive at the time you can spend
an hour in the summer of love
virtual reality booth in the 1967 store
for only a few dollars more
than those who lived through it. Loved
through it. Even the mostly abandoned first malls in town
are rejuvenated. People who want to return inexplicably
to 2004 will spend their money somewhere. Corvette
enthusiasts stand in line in the dark on the first day
of business at 1953. The ads say you’ll be able to set up
a chair on a sidewalk next to an actress
dressed as Riff Randall in the musical comedy aisle
in 1979. The longer you sit in the chair, the less you pay
for a souvenir ticket to see The Ramones. Real
retail business for hardware and dry goods and groceries
is conducted only in stores on streets with parking
meters, where a cat or dog lives on the premises.
You pet it. It pushes itself into the heaven
of your nails. You pay either in exact change
or less than a thing costs because the clerk
spots you the difference. The dime you found on the floor
goes right back into the M&M machine. Say
multinational, or headquarters in Kansas City,
if you happen to be in Columbus,
and the people standing around sharing the inside scoop
will be saying, with their 20 seconds of silence,
what the fuck? If you find a second
dime, call the switchboard operator. Ask her
to patch you through to yourself.

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