War Mall There could be time enough, and even energy enough, but the will stumbles back into unrepairable memories. The lungs have inhaled marijuana, and the day is dark, moving like a snail uphill in fog. Everywhere there is preparation for war ... where the big countries bomb the little countries. The mall is full of robots called American Consumers, blind and dull as door jams. I forget where I parked my car, and almost desperately search one row at a time. And I find  my beat-up, ‘92 Ford Tempo at the end of the 5th row. Some days I can’t walk into a mall without being overwhelmed by the mentality of war. There is something blatantly ostentatious, something bellowing greed and arrogance, that disgusts me! On other days I am better. I can come with my wife shopping for family and friends, and be a regular guy. Yeah, it must be the ganga, or the gloomy dark Oregon  day, as I speed down the freeway for home, like an army deserter running from the front lines, and more than happy to be one.