Prime Rib

 

There is room in your stomach

again so you've come to me,

head blooming with greasy ideas

of meat and how it should look.

Of course I know your preferences

before you do, just as I know your

name before you register mine

(why must I continue to have one?).

This gridlock of tables is my

little rat maze and you fancy

yourself a scientist of the first degree.

A charred letter of loin could save

this Thursday, you're convinced,

and I'm not unconvinced this is the case

for you, Large Man with Family. A dire

thing, these matters of big foods

and Thursdays. Still, I take myself with

a grain of salt, the same sort rimming

your margarita like gutters after

a snowstorm. It rarely snows here.

When it does, your Thursday has

something in common with mine and

finally there is something to talk about.

 

 

Table 4

 

“Yucca fries side of chipotle aioli, table 4.”

 

Vinny hands off the plastic bowl to Curtis, who moves it down the line to me. I look at the potato knock-off, inured to its charms. The food here has taken on object status, its smells no longer commune with my autonomic reactions. The bitchy white light of the kitchen furthers such feelings of sterility, the cooks pace in it like nurses. Apron-clad, well-trained. I leave their operating room and re-enter the clubby atmosphere of our bar. A real shock to the system. Every restaurant has to be a party, no one dines in peace anymore. Even breakfast hours have been infiltrated by hungover disc-jockeys and their milk crates of archival treasures. Quiet mornings destroyed. Plates of savory crepes shifting and swelling to the bass, as if to acknowledge the pudgy dancing boys of night to come. Fleetwood Mac has become mimosa music.

 

Table 4 is occupied by a wholeheartedly ambivalent duo, expensively done up but hunched over. Undoing the work. I often want to tell pretty young girls to sit up straight. Quasimodo TikTok necks, incapable of responding to me on the first or even second try. Their eventual attention makes me feel even worse, as though I'm distracting them from the real work of research elapsing on their phones. I do not wax poetic on the dignity of small-batch anything, but I can tell you how many plates you and your friend need, and I believe that making eye contact with strangers makes your day more specific. A new type of invisibility emerges, watching them have their food questions answered from reviews when I am standing inches away, full of insight, no matter how insipid.

 

 

Girl Smooth

 

It's me against the music. I know I suffer but I don't know why. Taking on the zone, I'm almost there. Lean in for a kiss with a girl-smooth face. It makes a difference. You say you want to lose control. Step outside, here comes the showdown. Take a little piece of my mouth and spit it out. For instance, we could dance all night. Comparing feet, crunk with Britney. Check this out. How have I loved this room every morning? Daylight. Boom-boom. Lick a pencil behind my back. Get on the floor and shake that ass. Heads bob and lean, busted goggles. Syncopated, no need to even touch me. That's also a sin. Yeah. Doubled over with clownish glory. Mennonite purse. Slit the plastic and stir. Don't know where I've lived for a long time. Blow. Breathe. Take over.

 

He's enough, the Israeli DJ. Thank him. No service, short bartender. Call some friends, it's pretty good. Turn where cars are. Bingo. New black lace, internet hair. It's all around, I can feel it now. Move forward. Machinated, let's go. You sort of walk in heels. Expensive pole lessons paying off. Propped cell, little traffic cone. The collected stories of your weekend. Look at her. Practiced sex drive, outrageous. Lost the beat. Didn't have it in the first place. Nobody's going to get the chance to look down on me. Bring the heat, dumb industry. Problems in the corner of course. Underage wishes. It's all forgiven, even fast fashion. I could go places but I won't. Self-care composites, hands clapping in emoji. I can't argue with small offenses. Grab my waist for real, moldy and irrelevant smile. Fade-in. The club is full of butt, you could still come. Political bouncers, reasonable giants. Scene hasn't collapsed yet. Bathroom line, tactful. Go ahead, cut. Compliments from a stall. I sort of do everything. Brave girl. Toilet girl. Sip a sip in that baby tee. Emerge. Last song of the night. No requests, capsule collection. Back-off Grindr grimace. It's all good. Lost your lip gloss but found a bag. Circle of life. Close out the devil's cup, patience for a weak pen. Fucked the signature, no cash ever. Stole your free time, tidal fortune. I can drive the whole group nowhere. Wasted tension, more dreadful laughter. Sometimes I just like to have it all.