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.