A mosquito buzzed by my ear enlightening me with the knowledge that karma is really Rice Krispie Treats dipped in Kaopectate. Intrigued, I listened for more wisdom; she bit me, not injecting itch, but releasing a profound thought that the universe tastes of raspberry and smells like 150 Proof Bacardi Rum. If I hadn’t swatted that hematophagic crepuscular creature, perhaps more perception would’ve permeated my porous perspicuity. But I did, so it didn’t. What to do… what to do became my morning mantra. I gotta pee… I gotta pee disagreed.

Sadly, my kitchen karma lacks in Rice Krispies or raspberry anything: Bacardi and Kaopectate also a no-go. But I did rediscover a fifteen-year-old can of HERSHEY'S Cocoa—never opened: its possible squalene contamination squashing my curiosity. Left with the option of swigging cranberry juice while defrosting the other white meat, an epiphany did elucidate on a long and lonesome highway, east of Omaha. My thoughts, wandering the way they always do, soon refocused and directed me Quentin Tarantino-like through the morning’s hazy fog to my confused Corolla where I soon was on the road again—turn the page.

Stop & Shop is a Mecca of mercantile perspicacity. Rain or shine, snow or tsunami, the store’s coolness—always a constant 45 degrees (understand that if it is 77 degrees Fahrenheit, subtract 32 from 77 and the answer is 45. Divide 45 by 9 and you get 5. Multiply 5 by 5 and you get 25. 77 degrees Fahrenheit which is equal to 25 degrees Celsius)—is always whipped, never pasteurized. I breathed in the eclectic odors; a small boy driving a go-cart shopping cart nudged my carriage; his oratory on the Kantain principle postulating that any course of action that cannot be universally adopted must be morally impermissible was weak at best. I looked at the tiny twerp intent on a refined retort, but the lead singer of a mariachi band—all dressed in lederhosen and tricorner hats—stepped forward. “Of course concepts are only a delusion, but a collective delusion which no one has the power to escape,” he said.

I laughed.

His bass player added, “Coz every girl is crazy ‘bout a sharp dressed man.”

I tucked in my shirt and readjusted my sweatpants as Andy Warhol skipped past the plums holding a can of Campbell’s Tomato Soup; Mary Cassatt, played a banjo, seemingly bemused while Dali continued caressing cucumbers persistent in memory that Chupa Chups pleased the swans and elephants that preferred watermelon-filled plantains. Intrigued, enlightenment became more than fluorescent lighting casting shadows beyond the blueberries, pomegranates, key limes, strawberries, and trail mix—no raspberries, it became purpose amidst other shoppers as I continued walking the line searching for interstellar space’s Holy Grail—my reintegration from exclusion jonesing big time. I needed to know, you know.

Swans Reflecting Elephants By Salvador Dali 

The dolphin at the fish counter, admonishing customers wanting tuna steaks—fresh, not frozen, nodded knowingly as I bypassed the Japanese tourists taking pictures of the spectacle; I flashed him a peace sign. Lady Gaga, writhing by the lobster tank, went all goo goo doll after squeezing her goo goo berry. I smiled… shoppers stopped chatting on their cell phones and sampling Benicio del Toro’s purple pimento loaf dipped in extra virgin vodka olive oil. Most seemed pleased; those who didn’t he shot in the face. Not wanting to be a victim of vicinity, I pledged to consume my 21 grams in an innocuous way.

“Bellissimo.” he said kissing his finger tips for effect.

“Bela Lugosi,” I said biting my tongue.

“The next time the sun comes round.”

“Perhaps.”

Karma was knoodling me—gently; the cereal aisle calling me—via canned muzak mozarting Canned Heat. I was on the road again to enlooped enlightenment; so was Benicio as Lady Gaga goo gooed him with a blowjob á la mode—cleanup on aisle three.

“No serial killer glasses will avert destructive road head monza,” the little Kanian twerp said peddling his go-cart shopping cart past me in reverse, full throttle balls to the wall. I snickered; I saw Meryl Streep close Julia Child’s eyes as Tony The Tiger, dressed as Fred Flintstone, demanded some Sugar Pops. Cap’n Crunch, at first glance mundane, became all munapää munching on Finnish corn flakes as Toucan Sam scored righteous oatmeal from The Quaker Oats Man, leaving Halle Berry, wrestling Count Chocula for a granola bar—honey coated, screaming, “Halle-fuckin-lujah.”  Hypnotic. I started to dream of caramel—to think of cinnamon.

Pow, the disgraced brother of Snap Crackle and Pop, gave me a noogie worthy of a noubit stuck in nougat. I readjusted my concentration. Karma needed to initiate initiatory wisdom in a box—pre-Kaopectate dipped. But there were so many choices: Rice Krispies with a sugar-frosted coating, Cocoa Krispies, Rice Krispies Treats Cereal, Rice Krispies with berry flavors, Rice Krispies with Vanilla Flavour", sold only in Canada and Connecticut, and Chocolate and Vanilla Rice Krispies. My head gasket weakened, and then blew. I ran into frozen foods screaming out all the things I’d do for a Klondike Bar; store security soon restrained me; one looked like my ex-girlfriend, minus the huge butt and pronounced facial follicle anomalies.

“Raspberries,” I rasped. 

“You too?” my ex-look-a-like said; her breath smelled of 150 proof Bacardi Rum with a hint of Pepsi—not Coke.

“Me too.”

“Mosquito?”

“Kaopectate.”

“Karma?”

“Raspberries?”

“Sold out.” She laughed.

“Damn.”

“Shit.”

“Kaopectate?”

“Sold out.”  She laughed again.

A crowd gathered. Bob Dylan Dylan staggered by offering up his ID. Lady Gaga finished with sucking Benicio del Toro to the bone, burped. She winked at me; she was mentioned in my rant of things I’d do for a Klondike Bar. Deflated, I retreated from what must have been karmic justice for swatting that mystic mosquito.

“Bob?” I called out: my echo loud; my eyes closed.

“Who knows? Not me. I never lost control. You're face to face with the man who sold the world,” he sang back.

I laughed, thinking I might search for a foreign land, maybe for years and years I’d roam gazing a gazeless stare. I opened my eyes. Salvador's  mustache smiled offering me his last raspberry Chupa Chups. A mosquito landed on my wrist and waited.

 Chupa Chups