He stands. Throws his cup away in the correct Starbucks recycling receptacle (there’s a guide on top of the barrel; it’s confusing). Moves outside, glances at me through the window as he passes. Stands by dull grey Prius. Lifts tank top before reflecting window. Deep-cut, not just abdominals but chiseled muscle groups flexing against taught skin. Gets in car. Drives into the world.
I think: he has to lift his shirt every time he wants to show his assets.
And then: most people are trying to monetize their lives, commodify their bodies, sell their wares.
Whether it’s a skill or a feature doesn’t matter; like auctioneers we shout ourselves before buyers who are themselves sellers, bartering what we have for what we want, trying to transform what was given or worked for (again, doesn’t matter) into currency that is then used to purchase from others what we need.
Our bodies become goods, paraded and traded by pimp-parasites whose property-claims ignore the ubiquity of dirt. We do to our-selves what we do to our-world, assert dominion over arms and legs, trees on a mountainside, flowers in a field, each captured by a brutal interloper that proclaims ownership over what it did not create, sells it, and moves on.
The pimp did look at me.
But then, deciding that I had nothing to offer, continued to hawk his meat to a hungry, depleted species.
Gloria in excelsis Deo.
G Beckman 