(no subject)
there are the melting scoops of icecream
like spoiled dreams at a bar top
and the unflattering
oversized men's shirts for pretty waitresses-
boasting shrimp cocktails and squid ink linguine.
there are the bad tippers
and the perfect tippers
and the exact tippers
that make you want to rip your asshole
in two or sell your face
to a costume store.
there are the lemon smiles
and lime slices
that hang from the wedgemaster
like dangling teeth at 4 o'clock.
there is the repetition
of shaved heads in smooth ties
and business suits like a flock
of lost balloons-
reuniting at a clean patio bar
for happy hour and socializing
who always make me wonder
if they go home
drunk and alone at 7pm
and what then?
there is the secret of farm raised salmon
and the triple tail
corvina hybrid!
there are the children
who throw napkins over their heads
like ghosts and make a mockery
of white linen fine
dining dignity.
there is the pair of men
drinking scotch on the rocks
till the torso
of the Mcallen bottle is sore
from the grip of the cold bartender's
quiet fingertips
who assume any restaurant girl
who went to boston university
for a little while
must have been recruited as a cheerleader
and got knocked up
or failed and never finished-
women with brains
and ambitions worth a dime
are not waitresses at seafood bars.
there is the woman who says
but there is no money in ngo work-
it's ok though honey
people find ways to make money in everything
my thoughts exactly.
there are the herds of
baby carriages and skinny lattes
at starbucks on the corner
in front of houston's
and the nice architecture and
quaint south florida street signs
of miracle mile.
there is a plate of brownie rinds
like fresh skin wishes
on the back of the counter
next to the proud and polished silver ware.
there is the serenity
and supplness
of cutting out the spine of a lemon
with a tiny serated knife
raw as filleting a fish
but a little less vulgar
versus the weight and clang
of hauling dishes over
the silver counter where food dies in the window
and the loud personalities
of young line cooks
in their twenties throwing slang
and bullshit around like a ping pong ball
in the back-
rise like steam off the hot plate of a sizzling seafood kettle.
and to pull your senses back down
from floating around in the
serving was never so tough and tender clouds
there is the predictability
of the char grilled executive chef
sweating spite spiced
jalapeno flakes down the sides of his face
staring at the latest ticket
like an insult to his existence
in the climax of a rush-
screaming, no tomato? no tomato?
the salmon doesn't
come with tomato!
like spoiled dreams at a bar top
and the unflattering
oversized men's shirts for pretty waitresses-
boasting shrimp cocktails and squid ink linguine.
there are the bad tippers
and the perfect tippers
and the exact tippers
that make you want to rip your asshole
in two or sell your face
to a costume store.
there are the lemon smiles
and lime slices
that hang from the wedgemaster
like dangling teeth at 4 o'clock.
there is the repetition
of shaved heads in smooth ties
and business suits like a flock
of lost balloons-
reuniting at a clean patio bar
for happy hour and socializing
who always make me wonder
if they go home
drunk and alone at 7pm
and what then?
there is the secret of farm raised salmon
and the triple tail
corvina hybrid!
there are the children
who throw napkins over their heads
like ghosts and make a mockery
of white linen fine
dining dignity.
there is the pair of men
drinking scotch on the rocks
till the torso
of the Mcallen bottle is sore
from the grip of the cold bartender's
quiet fingertips
who assume any restaurant girl
who went to boston university
for a little while
must have been recruited as a cheerleader
and got knocked up
or failed and never finished-
women with brains
and ambitions worth a dime
are not waitresses at seafood bars.
there is the woman who says
but there is no money in ngo work-
it's ok though honey
people find ways to make money in everything
my thoughts exactly.
there are the herds of
baby carriages and skinny lattes
at starbucks on the corner
in front of houston's
and the nice architecture and
quaint south florida street signs
of miracle mile.
there is a plate of brownie rinds
like fresh skin wishes
on the back of the counter
next to the proud and polished silver ware.
there is the serenity
and supplness
of cutting out the spine of a lemon
with a tiny serated knife
raw as filleting a fish
but a little less vulgar
versus the weight and clang
of hauling dishes over
the silver counter where food dies in the window
and the loud personalities
of young line cooks
in their twenties throwing slang
and bullshit around like a ping pong ball
in the back-
rise like steam off the hot plate of a sizzling seafood kettle.
and to pull your senses back down
from floating around in the
serving was never so tough and tender clouds
there is the predictability
of the char grilled executive chef
sweating spite spiced
jalapeno flakes down the sides of his face
staring at the latest ticket
like an insult to his existence
in the climax of a rush-
screaming, no tomato? no tomato?
the salmon doesn't
come with tomato!