Fall 2025 - Vol. 22, Issue 4

Our Brain, who art in overdrive,
hallowed be thy playlist.

Deliver us from the chip aisle—
that crucible of chaos,
where the lights pierce like unsolicited advice
and every bag whispers crunch in tongues.

Spare me the cereal section,
a shrine to indecision,
where cartoon mascots leer like used-car prophets
peddling nostalgia by the ounce.
I freeze before fifty shades of sugar,
seeking one box that won’t gaslight me
with “whole grain” redemption arcs and dental decay.

May the cart wheels glide in grace,
not squeal like a capitalist banshee.
Let my headphones baptize me in white noise
when the intercom declares:
“Cleanup in Aisle Six!”—
(my composure, presumably).
I came for bananas, not revelation.

May my list remain whole,
efficient, annotated—
a scroll of survival unfurled.
Each bullet point a north star
through the labyrinth of overstimulation.

Bless my executive function,
precarious as expired yogurt.
My thoughts shelf-hop like ghosts in barcode light,
vanishing mid-sentence.
Let me remember the oat milk—
the promised land of my morning ritual.

Let me not forsake the cart mid-mission
when the muzak remix of “Uptown Girl”
ignites the apocalypse inside my skull.

Let me stim in peace
beside the freezer doors,
watching frost bloom in holy geometry.
Let the compressor’s drone become a psalm,
the scanner’s beep my church bell of completion.

When I kneel at the altar of self-checkout,
may the machine spare me its wrath:
“UNEXPECTED ITEM IN BAGGING AREA.”
Absolve me, O barcode, for I have scanned imperfectly.

Print my receipt like a benediction.
Let the sliding doors part like the Red Sea.
Let me exit this fluorescent purgatory
and vanish into the parking lot—
a cryptid fleeing the light.

Return me, at last, to sanctuary:
where the only voices
are those I’ve invited—
the cat’s purr kneading the air,
the kettle’s gentle crescendo,
radiators murmuring like old friends.
Let me steep in silence.
Let me rest in peace.
Amen.