Getting kicked out of Walmart is never glamorous, but stapling a strip of paper around the handle of the baby carriage adds a flavor of distrust, as if one would steal a brand new baby carriage and leave this dirty-wheeled chariot behind, or perhaps assemble the pieces and everything if not for the availability of the display stroller–yes, that must be it. We would logically leave the obviously mud-covered stroller next to the Nestle boiled baby water and nipples, puff out our chests and walk past the gorilla-themed pajamas and make our way toward daylight like an airplane getting ready to take off at Logan International Airport. Whitney Houston music would be blasting from the blown-out  speakers, and it would remind me of New Jersey and those accents and the dichotomy in Paterson outside the avenue adjacent to the building where the GED exam is administered. The city eats the good and the bad, unable to decipher the differences. Clusters would be standing on street corners, sitting on stoops, or waiting outside the brick building for their chance at brain-muscling their way to another level. Get on my level, they say. The math test is next and it is equally full of car thieves, armed bank robbers, child rapists, and alcoholics. The deadbeat dads and welfare cheats are proctoring the exams, making sure nobody cheats and all sections are completed within the allotted time. Pencils down and exhalations, waiting to exhale, find that inspiration for the essay section, the one you practiced pushing leather, smoking blunts, listening to Kevin Costner movies, sitting on four spinning rims shimmering beneath the June cumulonimbus hope of one more year. So much can change in a revolution around sun. No firearms necessary, the solar flares and flaming comets colliding with Jupiter–those black spots–imagine if that happened on Earth. Here the anti-gay rhetoric, the rims so clean and music has been murdered, and jacked like the white grocer who sleepwalks or the old Korean who keeps a pistol in his sock. The monster at the drycleaner is a dwarf. The bell rings and the door opens and the foreign cars sped past, you can hear their tires squealing as the lost causes enter the building like worms, the ivy outside already eaten by moths, and many with deviated septum from testing their products, or else pointy jagged noses gasoline-soaked for years from the garage where they sleep after crimes, broken too many times to count, and cash is worth this chance to advance, get beyond the streets that killed your brother, fucked your aunt, raped your mother, the spiders eat the webs in the corners where the mice refuse to enter. The center of their vaginas are wet with desire, pencil eraser shavings on floral laps, cracked lips, and the men with their foreheads twisted and screwed, as if stealing a Cadillac with their magic wand in the ignition, twisting, hoping for that lucrative minute till time runs out and they could be shot any moment and this was it, atheist questions were not too difficult, but that one with the yellow bus about how many miles the train should travel what the fuck? Who the hell knows? They are delinquents, pushing seconds cross state lines in trunks and duct taped to their carriage by the custom gas tank and those wipers have more than licorice in their columns. You dream of Greek Gods and the palace where Walmart does not intrude, where the Utopia is more than blue dots and the Indians were assassinated for the secrets they held, those teepee scrolls and hieroglyphs in Colorado, and the geography that changed in the Second World Wars, the geniuses studied and even the idiots at least assumed they had the intelligence visceral intact and exploding, ready to expose it on a track, except this is the rat cage exam room of a building instead of a duplex apartment converted into a studio with Styrofoam on the walls, sleeping bags and children playing in inflatable circles, faded ellipses, and triangles as if it was a Bermuda infinity pool, and yes, we know about the Caribbean, but the questions are more about America, and the history that teachers and governments have lied about for centuries, because the real truth comes from another planet, and no matter how much we premeditate, it happened at once, slowly, that instance of brilliance now nothing more than  a tear on the nipple of a dream and the echoes of paper booklets being handed out for the essay, and oh shit—did you use enough of that prescription hemorrhoid Hydrocortisone cream (1%) and why are some people so wired that it takes them two minutes to make sure their names are blocked in properly on the text bubbles which accompany the booklets? A prison of witches and disintegration the only witness to the cauldron of an aspiring anything, or else fall back to those old ways and watch the cars and stolen time pieces and the fountain of the doomed rolling around the mountain of uncertainty, and solitude is better than a horse race in the afternoon and the trifecta of degeneracy is feeling those trickles of sweat creep down from your armpits and drip from your thighs, and your underwear is already damp, and thunder and lightning are part of the orchestra, the act is set, the stage is lit, and the number 2 pencils hit the goddamn table of the United States of America. And latter day (later that day) you will hear the fools and clowns singing their Saintly raps and flows so smooth, but you will be tired and in need of a shower–and a blunt–or both. You know you aced it, but they are convinced that you stole the goddamn baby carriage, or at least have the mentality to do so. Preparation is the key. Maybe one day, with a little perspiration and some hard work and dedication, you will live up to their dreams, manifest into a being capable of jacking a nice Mexican-made baby stroller from Walmart.