The
typical purchaser . . .
by Hezekiah
Allen Taylor
murders in mass, but intelligently so---pushing into pockets, taking
over, killing, moving on again to another little pocket. He sweeps through
an area as a soldier: swiftly, without compassion, with only thoughts
of conquest.
He works perfectly and accomplishes exactly what he set out to do: bring
the most advantages to bear. That the masses don’t relate to those
advantages doesn’t much bother a soul-lacking purchaser.
That’s a bit overstepping, really. I have no idea if the purchaser
was created or natural or a combination. No one does. It takes years
to study a person, like it takes to study a disease. Take small pox.
Around forever, but we didn’t get a firm handle until we uncovered
some dairy maids and cow pox and the concept of immunity many hundreds
of years later.
He moves too swiftly---all too like a disease---to study anything more
than your own painful symptoms. Not a lot of science works in at that
point. Not enough objectivity. Lots of religion and prayer and craziness,
but not a lot of objectivity.
It doesn’t take a lot to create chaos, really. I guess no one
who’s ever seen a horror movie or pictures from Hurricane Katrina
would be surprised by that. All the typical happened: panic, confusion,
disbelief, insanity. The chaos wasn’t really all that interesting;
I thought it would be, but people follow the same sad, sheep patterns.
This one was mostly: we’ve all got to band together, fuck that
didn’t work, don’t let it get me, not me, not my child/husband/friend/lover,
fuck that hurts, let me act out in anger, I’m going to die, help
me God, where is God.
Typical.
A lot of people who didn’t die from the shock of the purchaser's
choices died from the chaos. That was probably to be expected. It’s
hard to figure out the best response to a situation when it doesn’t
follow the pattern you have engrained. And, for some reason, even in
the midst of chaos, many people are so engrained in the patterns that
they have no other reactions . . . how else do you account for people
still stopping at stop lights when the world is on fire or trying to
find TV stations in a blackout or thinking that their cell phones will
work THIS time . . . this zillionth time they’ve tried it in the
dark.
It’s those who didn’t perish who are the most interesting,
really. Survival stories, tough skins, good genetics, excellent luck.
There are so many reasons to explain why those few survived the purchaser's
choices. Some were naturally immune, perhaps. Some were luckily never
exposed to Wall Street. Some were taken care of by others. Some took
care of themselves. A relative few . . . a very, very few . . . actually
slowly, painfully, painstakingly recovered. There aren’t many
of those. Those are real gems, real finds. I cherish those.
I’m more than ready to write it all down. I’d like to say
it’s for posterity, but I stopped believing in posterity well
before the chaos, well before the purchase. I stopped believing in posterity
well before Starbucks and 9-11 and the suicide of whatever rocker you
most admired. Maybe I never believed in posterity.
Waiting around for slaughter is rather boring, by the way. It’s
like the falling from a great height. Nothing much happens until you
hit the ground. Nothing much happens until the purchaser comes to town.
Francine's Version
-- Hezekiah's Version
Previous Poem -- Next
Poem -- Table of Contents
