Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Billo Dec 2014
A restaurant's closing at the corner of Front Street and Central
. . .  I've never been,
but I've glimpsed through the windows decor that was sure ornamental.

(Word on the street's that the eats were alright - the plates were too large - but the waitstaff were nice! Patrons, served tiny portions, were alarmed at the price - 'til they drank the last drop of red wine)

The place had a name before this iteration
They called it The Tempest before renovations.
I had been there
  - I'd been pleased by the service,
          been famished, then satisfied,
             and surprised by dessert -
     I'd been all kinds of things.

I had been cheesecake and you were crême brulé
and for a moment we shared a plate.
It might have been just the right size,
but I can't quite remember.

Were the waitstaff pleasant? - I desperately hope that I was...
The company was one of a kind.

For whatever reason, The Tempest closed,
and the place that has replaced it has closed,
& who knows what will be on the corner of Front Street and Central next?

all I know is that
                   all kinds of things
stop being
              a piece of cake
Flotsam or jetsam?
You barely know 'im
i've been a woman for nineteen and a few months years
and i've never looked at waitstaff
and asked
can i get that with a side of guilt?
but i should have
because it feels like that's what i
am ordering
instead of fries because
all the salt in the world
can't cover up the taste of guilt and self loathing i feel for eating sometimes
this is for all of the ladies i know who look at cookies
longingly, but tell themselves no
only to eat an entire box of them later
and cry
and most women will never admit to it
but i've been there
and cookies don't taste so good when
you're tossing them up
and this is for the ladies i have watched in the grocery store
eyeballing the candy bars like they are men in dark
allies or
snakes in the grass
because the magazines sitting right beside
them are watching you watching that candy bar watching you watching your weight watching those inches around your waist watching you
and telling you that you aren't good enough
a moment on the lips forever on
the- hold that ******* thought
because my lips and hips have two things in common-- they are big
and they want all this
******* to stop
every time a woman prattles off how many calories are in a drink
i can't help but correct her in my mind because
i know for a fact that there are five more calories in that than she told me
because i've been counting calories and playing games with my stomach since
second grade.
i may be **** at algebra, but i know intake out-take math like
i know the smell of my grandma's cigarettes.
eating meals with other women
is unbearable because i am tiered
of having to eat entire cinnamon buns
to myself because
my friends wont split them with me
and i'm tiered of watching women
talk about eating too much but
wanting to get
back
on
it
tomorrow like
feeding themselves is a crime
and so the next time i go to
cookout for a blueberry shake
i'll ask you to leave out the guilt
because it fills my throat up
like sand and my teeth
are brittle and tired from being
bared and ground
while i
battle with myself
over the baked goods at
a coffee shop
wondering if
i feel like hating myself
today
svdgrl Apr 2014
In what chair was patience seated before we met?
At the long table where acquainted faces were eager to eat
we sat at each end, like king and queen and let the lines of empty dinnerware
and the cattail centerpiece divide our once linked gazes.
But I felt that wary stare peeking between leaves,
your gleaming mouth moving in vehement whisper, cursing yourself.
I see everything, but I pretend to know nothing as I place napkin in my lap,
looking past the guests beside me, into the kitchen door window.
You observe with intent, you assume my watch is bent to our friends.
Dinner isn’t ready, and everyone is restless.
I am quiet, and apologetic for the fellow who chose this venue,
because I know he probably feels no remorse, and only anger,
for the waitstaff spinning around the other tables.
Compassion isn’t a cell worth refueling for this company,
with large brains and demands, but space and time consuming bodies.
Our cups are dusty as our carpeted souls.
I see my fingerprints all over yours, through the constructed cold and cattail,
Clean, round spaces where I really knew
I touched you.
A lonely fool perked up, finally and thank goodness, drink is to be served.
How else would we last while our bellies rumbled with distaste and depravity?
I watched her pick her scabs and toss a pound of flesh to a neighboring plate.
It was yours.
You were too busy glaring at me with loan shark’s interest.
I am but a merchant who didn’t know what to sell and where to sell it,
but closed business when my ship found asylum on an island.
My visage no longer appetizer, you eat the poison on your plate.
It was an inerasable memory that the smell of cooked meat and spices interrupted.
But everyone was too drunk to remember we were hungry.
And I was too sad to order anything, anyway.
So I waited, glancing down, moved my napkin to wipe my lipstick off,
and on my lap, I saw,
Patience in between my knees, on my royal wood grained seat.
I look up, and once again, our eyes meet.
JT-TJ Oct 2010
They hustle and bustle, through the days and night.
Waiting on people, so there food will taste right.
They pour me my coffee, they put up with my smoke.
My loitering they swallow, and don't even choke.

This waitstaff works hard, some people don't see.
All the work they put into, serving you and me.
There wages are low, and tips can be poor.
Some customers may even, leave there manners at the door.

But still they work hard, and smile to you.
When you leave this place happy, it's good service that's true.
Many have bills, or families to raise.
They depend on your tips, to get through the days.

So when you come in, remember all the work.
These people try very hard, so don't be a ****.
There customers they like, and we like them as well.
Treat them with respect, don't give them any hell.
- From I Have Seen
Kagey Sage Mar 2018
What’s new about Hipsters? It’s not that they're the first co-opted counter-culture, far from it. The Beats were co-opted. The Sentimentalists, over 200 years ago, were co-opted before capitalism was so industrious. It’s not even new that calling a ***** a ***** is offensive. “Hippies,” “Beatniks,” “Emos;” all insulting labels for youth that thought they were much more.

There it is, or some of it, perhaps. Does the current so-called counter-culture feel like they’re part of something much more? Even without labels, I don’t think they think of themselves as a counter-culture at all. The worst part about it is the Hipsters and  non-Hipsters are really much the same. Falling for a similar niche, but feeling like they ain’t.

We all like flannel, thick glasses, and good beers. We’re all killing Applebee’s. We’re the waitstaff there who laughs at ourselves, cause we’re just so low-down. Not the last, but toward the bottom rung of a ladder that once meant progress beyond our parents’ lives. We stand for nothing and everything, because a secure tomorrow seems unlikely and unwanted. Beget suburban kids like our parents did? Could I buy them as much as I had? A student loan on top of a mortgage, I think I’m better off paying exorbitant rent. Plus, it just feels more temporary, like everything else.

Late twenties, long passed the age my parents conceived, I’m getting old. Lack of full adult independence, still feel floated in embryonic fluid, trying not to give juvenile hopes up.  Qualified for that secure job, but is it open? Maybe I’ll have to move down South. Just like everyone else.

At least there’s always music. Nearly a century of recorded songs. Indie, Scene, and Emo; the last real counter-cultures associated with rock genres, and most practitioners scoffed at these labels. Why didn’t Punks or Metal Heads care?

More pressing, what is the newest rock genre? Emo faded nearly 10 years ago. Some formation of Americana seems sorta fitting now. Not far from that “Indie” umbrella,  it’s what Hipsters seem to like most, at least in the TV commercials. These more choral, sometimes bluesy bands. Some are good, but it’s nothing new.

Now, the algorithms anticipate evolution years in advance. All tastes like Styrofoam, so we spit it out fast. We keep skipping tracks to futility escape the same persistent hum. All the price for our growing clairvoyance. Telescopically, we are flying fast into a wall that ends originality. Too many citations needed. We enter them into software to manage. Our fear of plagiarism makes one uninfluenced instead of inspired. We just make homages. Turn anything creative into a list of allusions.

We forgot to forget
Suspend St. Anselm
patron of using rationality
to explain away one’s faith
in magic and mystery
God exists because
all we can imagine must exist
Your unicorns are but
a mind’s fusion of
horse and narwhal
and your culture is but
a culmination of has-been trends
So it’s all been done
Why try to change a thing?
Why try to be new?

This is the end. Not reflecting and absorbing past cultures with an eye to the future. But judging and consuming past cultures with with a carnal now. There are some niceties to be gained in solely present preoccupations. Yet, no Buddha abounds in these selfish meditations. We are no longer the bodhisattvas, suspending enlightenment to save all beings. “We’re woke, because we know we’re ******” Then we type a symbol for “laugh out loud,” while our mouths stayed closed. We take a morning slug and drive off to work. The complexity of our controllers v. the simple fleeting pleasures. What can I do? Why should I bat an eye at the way the world works?
https://www.adbusters.org/article/hipster-the-dead-end-of-western-civilization/
He blows his nose on tablecloths
And wipes his *** with the decorative hand towel hanging on the rod
Then, he tries to flush it
Overflows the toilet, but hides his ****** evidence
He brings a boom box into church to listen to ol’ ***** ******* and NWA
He gets ejected from libraries because he wanks off into encyclopedias
He wears cleats on the basketball court
He turns the batteries over in every remote he encounters
He drives around neighborhoods in the summer, blasting ice cream truck music, carrying no ice cream, or even ice
He covers rocks with snow, and throws “snowballs” at little kids
He secretly walks up behind old ladies and puts gum in their hair
He dines and dashes at every restaurant, after being incredibly rude to the waitstaff
He puts superglue on flies, and dangles them in front of frogs
He brings dandelions wherever he goes, so he can blow them all over every well-manicured lawn he sees
He takes all but the last four squares of toilet paper out of every restroom he enters
He never refills the ice trays
He dumps all the juice out of the pickle container, and leaves the pickles with the lid off
He slits long openings into window screens
He cuts the wicks off too short on candles
He goes on the office morning coffee run, and gets everyone decaf
OK.  I’m lying
He doesn’t do any of those things
But he’s still a ****
For unnamed reasons
will19008 Jan 2020
It was a fine white linen tablecloth the size of Sevastopol
and I smoothed out the slightest wrinkles one by one, flicking away
tiny—almost imperceptible—crumbs

Front-end loaders delivered the silverware, crate after crate, and
wave upon wave of thundering Chinooks dropped parcels of pleated,
excruciatingly well-starched dinner napkins

An army of kid-gloved waitstaff painstakingly unwrapped a myriad
of fragile place-settings and carefully laid them straight, bristling with
an anticipation heretofore unknown

A steady scarlet stream of hosed fire engines rumbled past to fill each
finely-stemmed water glass around shards of ice chainsawed, ton by ton,
from the diminishing glaciers of Greenland

The steamy aroma of luncheon filled the atmosphere enveloping most
of the entire Eastern seaboard as the sound of tongs metallically clattered
amidst the hiss of the multitudes of grills

All appeared in readiness as I surveyed this near-perfect hall, the size of
Barcelona, and murmuring voices of those waiting mingled with sunlight
passing through the sheer, breezy drapery

I smiled wryly to myself for today I would be supping with those who
have also experienced the loneliness I often feel inside
Shall I expect you?
The invisible gears hiding in plain sight
who keep our world moving smoothly despite
neglect. Doorman. Barista. Waitstaff. Mechanic.
Receptionist. Host. Pizza delivery. Painter.
Lawn care. Trash Collector. Plumber. AC repair.
Nurse. Janitor. Mechanic. Clerks. Stokers. Cooks.
Maintenance. Apartment Manager. Sales force.
Middle management. Secretaries. Teachers.
This list could go into infinity and I know
we'd all fit into a group at one time or so.
All I ask is each day greet the faded ones
with sincerity and let them into your thoughts
so that they'll never have to be forgotten.
I think that is my greatest fear. Death
without a footprint in the world.
Hammra Sistur Aug 2020
4
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ my
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ soul attends
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀to
a green
carpeted palm heaven
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀and
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀i
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀­⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ am
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀dead,
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ here
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀in
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀this
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀de­sert
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ fabricated
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀oasis
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀
waitstaff mexican hips
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀fold the towels
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀cigarette butts
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀and
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀cellphone
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀­chatter
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀define
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀the perimeters of
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ paradise
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀
god rented his cabana
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀and his girls
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀wet from the pool
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀to
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀the
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀versace
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ***** closeout
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀executives
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀stinking of ice
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀

— The End —