(Distractions from the shopping malls detraction from the hopping falls and rations for the empty halls) [AKA] {THE LOST ONE NUMBER TWO

Welcome to the shopping mall, the pinnacle of our civilization, the greatest monument to commerce ever erected. Housing row upon row of materialistic shrines, preaching their religion to passerbuyers in the strategically constructed street. Millions of people come and go through the gates of America's malls every day. Some browsing, some buying, some simply ambling around, but all are part of a much larger scheme, devised by mall owners to encourage consumption of their goods at the expense of the consumers. For many the mall is a place simply to "hang out" but mall owners do their best to discourage these actions. The mall is designed to appear as a social environment while functioning as an isolation g system discouraging shoppers from interacting with anyone other than the shop keepers when making a purchase. The mall, a recreation of a town center has evolved from a thoroughly social place to one completely individually centered. The mall is an isolatory environment, not only in the sense of its separation from the real world, but also in the sense of isolation from the shoppers from each other.

When a customer walks into a mall they are in a warm inviting place opening into a food court full of people or a large empty space where people can funnel in to and trickle out of the store. Immediately they feel a warm sense of community in the air, like they are part of something, but at the same time they are separated from it. The people in the food court, are engaged in conversation amongst their own separate groups, the people in the entrance are quickly rushing to their car to make it to their next errand not noticing the people around them. The newcomer is hardly noticed amongst the hustle and bustle of the buying frenzy. The mall, the modern day town center, the futuristic main street of a time now forgotten, the mutated simulacrum of the market places of ancient Greece where people would go to deal their wares and to shop till they dropped from paying top fares and they hipped and they hopped till they made it to the stairs of heaven. And those stairs led right up into the sky where on the clouds the angles died and sank into the burning fluff draining the brilliant white as the dropped and falling out in shattered bits burning bits dripping bits raining bits, the pieces of which kept on hailing down into a blue boat sailing where the rudder like no other struck a baby whales mother only mommy didn't feel it she just shook it off and healed it threw the boat up into the sky the sky up high where angels die and live and fly and shop and buy at shopping malls up in the sky where prices are so low they say that down on earth you'd jump today into a pool of molten love and merge with hate until you dove into the ground under the pool its fresh and neat and oh so cool and in the sun the waters boil leaving naught a top the soil leaving neither grass to eat or sunken waters in the street nor hide nor hair of bird or bear and lifting all into the air lifting all up to the sky up up high where angles die, where angles cry and people lie to get into the peaceful sky and soar with birds like childish fears of falling creeping burning air with mystic oars in boats of leaves that sail away into the breeze with wind behind and sun before and rabbits riding on the floor that eat the leaves that keep a float the tiny little falling boat that opens up into to breeze that tiny little boat of leaves it simply floats way up and leaves the past behind a tiny speck that bead of sweat upon your neck that fell there from behind your nose and drained your smelling like a rose but cooled your face and soiled your skin and left you hot and burnt again and stole the pieces of your soul and sold them all for bags of gold that taken up into the sky would make the angles start to fly away from greed and sins untold those lanky bags those bags of gold they stole from you and stole your soul you lying frozen in the snow with spots of pink around the ice from when the salmon tried to fight the fisherman who had the hook that he made from his last book and tore the pages from the sleeves and sent them off into the breeze and made great waves for the little ship that went out to the air to dip into the sun and feel its waves and escape from all the haze where children spent their dieing days in sand boxes with grains of dust that fell from angels pious lust way up high up in the sky where the angels eat their pie their pie of peace their piece of pie made from Satan's stale eye the only one that people know the only kind of tree that grows in the dirt from over seas the dirt was blown in on the breeze in little ships the pirate ships that fell from trees that took a sip of poisoned air and violently shook out its hair into the breeze that breeze of seas of air and particles in the breeze that send the ship out over seas along the breeze the rodents please themselves by sailing through the trees and understand their fate to land out far away in distant lands and tread on soil under foot and under tree but over root and trek out onto lands that beckon to the soul of the lost and wandering mole that flew on leaves across the sea with rabbits mice and squirrels three and three were lost out on the seas those that drowned under the breeze and got sucked in to clouds up high way up high where angels try to save the dead and gently cuddle their sweet heads and suck the life out from the bones and send the bodies back to home where children cry and from the sky the looks of terror multiply enunciate the sobbing tears that wallow around all the years that people live until they die and are sucked into the sky and once they live they than must die and so the cycle on its side keeps spinning round and down to earth where lovers fall into the dirt with holes of passion through their brains and blood is taken till its drained and the earth has had its fill and then the place can sit here still and listen to the sounds of the sky way up high where angels die.

JULY TWENTY FIVE TWO-THOUSAND FIVE