Chomp Chomp

I’d choose to err on the grungy side of gourmet, thanks. 

One time I sat at this counter
sandwiched in between two shining vikings
of the night, spiced ginger beards
and beer, enjoying the company of fun guys. .

I sat, with an energy less reserved for twitching
chihuahuas and more the like of a sugared-up child.
Full of desire to ride the rides and see,
with pupils waxing, all the sights.

And at this counter I gazed into the eyes-
bewildered eyes - of the art show flyer
held with scotch tape to grease-splattered walls,

and at this counter I stared
into the shifting soul of the aged demon
tattoo staring me down from arms well-obscured
by a full parlor’s worth of ornament.

Ropes of hair
twisting gracefully
in defiance of gravity
or genetics.

One time I left the muggy May evening
to go in and take my place
among the normal people from the
ecstatic haze of an altered condition.

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