Mudlark Flash No. 20 (2002)

Mall Poem   |   Francis Raven


The Stanford Mall
Union Station



Author’s Note

“I wrote these poems at two vastly different malls,
the Stanford Mall and Union Station, in order to understand
the phenomenon of the mall not to mindlessly criticize it.”

                                                      E-mail:  Francis Raven



The Stanford Mall

Palo Alto, California
July 14, 2002

1.

So, this is the Stanford Mall.

The paper trail of money that has flowed between.

I always wanted to do a photography project
Consisting only of jewelry stores before they are open.
You know, when all of the bodiless mannequins are naked,
when there is no value.
I thought I’d call it “The Ontological Playfulness of Emptiness.”
But, the problem was, the photographs didn’t turn out that well.
Glare or darkness.
This idea grew, until I thought I’d take pictures
of everything that was empty.
But it never quite came together.
Somehow this is an explanation of how I ended up
at the mall.

Well, that and the fact that Carolyn
was away for the weekend and I’d always wanted
to write a set of poems about the mall.


2.

Of course, this mall isn’t any mall.
Not a strip mall. Not a cheap mall by any means.

This is, of course, an outdoor mall.
A mall of the seasons. But there is air conditioning in every store.


3.

Awaiting bliss.
Two glasses.
One says “hi.”
The other abbreviates an entire structure of digestion, “burp.”

How can we await bliss?
I mean, how can we get there?


4.

Even though the economy has tanked
there is still pleasure to be found in shopping.

Even though property values in the area have
dropped 15 or even 20 percent
we can still shop. We can still count our blessings.

I am, of course, trained to think about race and class,
but the sparkle of the mall
inverts my cares.


5.

What’s on sale at Macy’s?
Carolyn has a gift certificate which she must spend
before we go home to St. Louis
because there are no Macy’s there.
What a pity.
But there is nothing to purchase in sight.

But we got her earrings here. I think, at least.
With gold posts. Because of the eczema on her ears.
I’m pretty sure that they were Ralph Lauren’s.
A couple of nice pairs from Macy’s.
I love it when she puts them in.


6.

Trying on sunglasses at Bloomingdale’s;
the toe of a pointed shoe
deliberately, deliciously, cracks
Steve Madden’s glass into
the knit-purl ribs of a 58 dollar pink scarf.


7.

We shop on the terms of gift,
spontaneous, even theoretically so,
but somehow reduced to holiday’s market share
and reduced again to fucking Christmas stores.


8.

She offered me a room,
a dressing room,
and upon purchasing
that pair of green swimming trunks
with the yellow elastic band
I tried to remember her name,
(so that she would receive
the proper, if paltry, commission)
but couldn’t, and so merely said nervously,
“She’s the girl with
the big black necklace
and the tattoo of a pair of platform shoes
on her forearm.”
The check-out woman replied naturally,
“Oh, you mean Cindy.”


9.

Two middle-aged black women
smoke beside large flower pots
which yell yaya ya Macarena
far too apparently for serenity.
You cannot smoke in any
public building in California.
The women are sisters, one,
the slightly made-up one
works at Bloomingdale’s Lipstick Counter.
The other has come to visit her sister,
on her lunch break, and perhaps
to do a little shopping.


10.

Looks as if Bally’s is going out of business.
Half of the shelves are empty.
The sun-tanned tight-skinned manager
speaks casually to his Cantonese employee
as she reads the newspaper.
The stage settings are evaporating.
I am not sure what accent I should use
to ask the price of a pair of
trendy European walking shoes.


11.

I am a faker.
I walk into Pottery Barn for Kids
with a story already hatched:
“Hi there, I’m looking for a birthday present
for my four year old nephew.”
I don’t have a nephew.
This is my sense of humor.
The helpful attendant directs me to
some little wooden cars,
almost like the Brio trains
I played with as a child,
but the thing about these cars is that
my nephew could paint them
how he wanted to. I mean,
he could really use his creativity on these cars.
I picture him smearing them with color
while listening fervently to some Zeppelin.
I like the image but inform the lady
that I’ll have to think about it.


12.

I dip into Hear Music,
a small record store where you can listen
to any available CD. The music
in blips and pierces
is the soundtrack
that I have been waiting
to tear reality with.

Album of the moment: The Red Hot Chili Peppers’ By the Way.
I’ve just read a positive review of it in both Spin and Rolling Stone
(did you hear it might be the end for it? too venerable).
Surfy and Californian, they both proclaimed.
            The Heroin story of reinstated guitarist John Frusciante
            added a warming note of human interest.
I’d have to agree. It's quite a tingle.
      Takes me back to the second Lollapalooza
      with them and Pearl Jam.
First music that made me spastic.
They must be 40 now.
      In the car, Becky says that she always thinks
      of rock stars as older than her
      but still young,
but that’s not possible anymore.


13.

Books Inc. bought the bookstore
that I worked for in Palo Alto.
Their logo reads “The West’s Oldest
            Independent Bookseller”
      but
                        they have at least
                        8 locations
            which led me to question
            what they meant by ‘independent.’
The context of a bookstore in such a faraway land as the mall
overcame my interest in semantic honesty,
for a moment of browsing,
but then, being brave, and having to know, I asked
the customer relations geek what it meant for them
to be independent.
            He fetched a manager who began
            “according to the definition we’re using...”
            and went on to talk about how
            their founder published Mark Twain
            and how they weren’t like Random House,
      but I ended up not understanding at all
                        “according to my definition...”


14.

Why is there a McDonald’s in the Stanford Shopping Mall?
I mean, why is there a McDonald’s in a mall which
probably makes more money than any other mall in the country?
I mean, why is there an establishment that sells
greasy hamburgers in health conscious Palo Alto?
Two thoughts: kids and workers.
The first thought is about “family values.”
The second is about the horrors of the marketplace.
I did not obtain an official answer.
What I did see was that 23 of the 32 patrons were non-white.
What I did see was that all apparent workers were non-white.
What I did see was a 30 year old Latino man
polishing the baby-grand piano
which belonged to a mannequin
with a large moon for a head.


15.

I keep watching people get interviewed
for positions I hope they’re qualified for.
The applicants are all well dressed,
have been diving deeper into their jobs,
but need to explore possibilities
to expand their “horizons.”
You can see through it all
in their eye gestures
as they nod their heads:
            “You definitely shouldn’t burn any bridges.”
            “Yea, I don’t think it’ll be a bridge burning situation.”
            “I’ll just have to keep my ear to the grindstone for you.”
The interviewer circles items on the interviewees résumé.
It is a time of consulting, of positioning, and repositioning after the bust.
The mall is not sad yet.
But I haven’t looked at how the markets are doing today.
I’ve been away, all day, away at the mall.


16.

I heard it was
Williams Sonoma’s
best quarter ever.
Until I read that article
I didn’t even know they owned Pottery Barn.
It makes sense: high end, mid end, low end.
Banana Republic, Gap, Old Navy.
Not vertical or horizontal integration,
but diagonal.

The alley outside Williams Sonoma
reeks of lemon fresh.
I think the Body Shop
is overflowing with
organic cruelty-free intentions.


17.

“Most people tend to go for single varietals around here.
It’s much more difficult to get people to go for blends.”
One side of the fake alley outside of the wine store
was painted to look like Paris,
the other meant somewhere special in Italy.


18.

I buy a cup of coffee
at the Palo Alto Roasting Company.
The steaming Styrofoam cup reads both:
“Palo Alto Roasting Company”
and “Los Gatos Roasting Company.”
Two places at the same time.
I dream of being native someday.


19.

How much are you what you buy?
You decide what you wear,
how it’s produced, how distributed.
So, can you be a good person
simply by buying the right things?
      “I don’t think
the survey’s going
to say yes
to that one.”
But, I mean, sometimes it feels good
to buy something. I know it can’t make you happy,
but sometimes I’m just in the mood
for a new album, a new way of dressing, a new
distraction, a new way of looking at the world.
Of course, I am always afraid
that the supply of newness
will dry up.


20.

$9.99 shirt I’ll stain
before the week is out.
Coffee or beer,
I’ll let her decide.


21.

When you walk into Banana Republic
a tennis bag of green apples greets you
and rhymes with how you are welcomed
at the Fillmore Theater in San Francisco.
Are the apples waxy? Is your skin?



Union Station

St. Louis, Missouri
September 28, 2002

1.

Back in my hometown
I used to ride the bus
from mall to mall
in order to get home.

I used to shoplift
from Banana Republic
back when it was a safari store.
I used to steal ties
for no reason:
plenty of gift.

I’d ride into Union Station
from my suburban high school,
but not on a train.
The train station is now a mall
and you can wait for your train
in two trailers stapled together.


2.

I remember when the movie theater
opened, a Cineplex, with ten screens,
with thrillers, African American comedies,
and lots of talking in the seats.
I remember the sheer loneliness of the mall
when seeing Candyman there by myself.


3.

When they dedicated the mall at Union Station
I touched Bob Hope (although
I didn’t know who he was)
or was that memory
from the dedication
of another
gentrification project?


4.

Scaffolding covers the fake lake,
the real geese, and the little boats—
Tourism is so depressing in a place like St. Louis
where tourism doesn’t mean anything.

It’s as if
there were a loudspeaker pulsing:
“If you’re a tourist
you’re safe here.
We’re protecting you
from what’s outside.”


5.

For some reason, once,
I nagged a maid’s key
to the Hyatt Regency
and for sometime after
walked the halls of the hotel
in search of dishes
which patrons had
shoved out their doors.
I would, in turn, shove the
greasy plates
into my green Eddie Bauer backpack.
It became permanently redolent of ketchup,
but eventually I had a complete place setting for four.
An odd thing for a tenth grader to do,
but perhaps it was the root of my interest in food.


6.

The Hard Rock Café isn’t open till 11:30.
I wander and kick puddles up onto myself.
Union Station: a tourist mall,
is downtown and as such
has “issues”
which might or might not
be dealt with
by a sign posted at each entrance
listing a total of 17 rules
beginning with:
AFTER 5:00 P.M.YOUTHS
AGED SEVENTEEN (17) AND UNDER
MUST BE ACCOMPANIED BY
A RESPONSIBLE PARENT, GUARDIAN, OR RELATIVE
TWENTY-ONE (21) YEARS OR OLDER.

(This regulation wasn’t given a number,
but was posted in red capital letters).
The list interestingly ends with
a seemingly impossible notion of private property:
“Photographing, video taping,
and filming requires approval
by St. Louis Union Station management.”


7.

The smell, if not the taste, of McDonald’s
beckons (I suppose taste can’t ever even
theoretically beckon).
I am owed a free Big Mac
because the Cardinals
hit a home run against the Astros
and I saved my ticket. (these are the rules)
But I promised the guy
who I went to the game with
that I would eat it with him,
but it beckons,
but it’s nasty anyway.


8.

The lunchboxes all open at the Beatles For Sale store.
The souvenir coin machine prints a perfect, if slightly too pointed,
arch on my penny.
The disposable camera is easily thrown away.
Autograph Plus has the perfect gift to match your eyes:
Tiger Woods’ authentic signature on a bad print of his drive.
The video store has a used edition of Die Hard for $10.99.
You can get 10 cheap accessories for five bucks
or watch The Harvey Girls in some hard blue bleachers.
I’m just reminding you.
These are some, if not all, of your options.


9.

Step outside to the valet
who views you suspiciously,
and smell the human feces in the air,
but the oxidized Milles (sp?) fountain,
with tridents and fishtails,
still spouts regally.


10.

Today
Somebody else
Chose my soundtrack.


11.

My hands are dry.
So I walk in to the Body Shop
and apply olive oil, mango, and coconut
Body Butters.
I am now a cacophony of smells,
if a little greasy.
When I sit down to write
on some indoor stairs
a young know-nothing security guard
informs me that I cannot sit on these particular stairs.
“Why not?”
“I don’t know, just the rules.”
“Well, that seems crazy, is there
a manager or someone I can talk to
because that sounds crazy?”
On his walkie-talkie he tries to get
someone down, but I get scared and answer
the entire equation with a “forget it.”


12.

Brookstone delivers
any technological toy you might desire:
A Tempur-Pedic mattress for $1899.
But it does remember you in the morning.
I’ve been thinking of buying a vanity mirror,
but the only ones available
magnify by three times; every pimple.
But then again
a chef’s fork with thermometer
would allow me to stab
that extravagant bed
and know how hot I sleep.


13.

You can go to where
the grand chandeliers
of the old train station
still hang,
but they don’t touch
the lives of
any of the stores around here.


14.

The Hard Rock Café finally opens—
television framed,
its emptiness looks like a foreign country.

Blares too loud,
families argue over
too expensive nachos.


15.

The mall is open, common and destroyed.
It is our own notion of destruction
manifest,
but it is also our own openness,
our field and food.
Our choices gone crazy,
elegance stripped away,
but this is not necessity either.
It is the wealth of anti-elitists
put to strange use, recreating
an elitism again in their own image.

Every object in the mall
is a great idea
metastasized.



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