The Hostess Stand Stanzas

That smiling face… whether you deign to speak at it or not, there’s a thousand razor-sharp barbs behind those little teeth. Those dull little eyes hold a vocabulary that would surprise.

Oh, shit, she’s capable of more than a, “Table for two?”

Her mind wanders as your eyes rove- oh she’s got an opinion of you.


It’s a lot of people standing in line-

taking turns taking your life away until you die

Just so they can out and dine.


The man in suit smiles, but only briefly.

He is seat  #7. Nothing else.

Salmon tie, did he chew on smelts

Before cracking into laughter.

I think I know him.


The Bartender.

likes the Femmes.

The Violent Ones.


Oh, God, come down and shoot me,

kill me, take me, break me,

open up my brain and scramble up these little cerebral bits,

Seize me into a thousand epileptic fits,

While I stand here, nothing at all to anyone,

Take all your fucking bullets and put them into me,

While somewhere overhead plays the place I should be.


On Coworkers.

The redhead with magnet brains.

The man from 1971.

They make a pair.

And then the one

who’s a full fucking house.


Table 11 is sooooo unimpressed.

Soooooo unentertained.

I could watch them all night.

Listen to them- I’m a bit of furniture at the door so I can-

They’re exactly what they look and sound like they are, all right.


I quite possibly lead the least interesting life of anyone I’ve ever met.

At least…

that’s what I’ve been told.


His face is flushed.


Quite jolly, they become.

But no amount of booze

makes an asshole a better tipper.


Smile and wave bye-bye

No matter how they treat you.


Thank God sometimes they’re easy to look at.

Passive entertainment.

Like the covers of magazines.

The Church plays on.

Oh wait, shit.

That’s Morrissey.


I’m not lonely or incompetent.

I’m bored and fucking tired.


Oh. My. God…

I’ve never seen so much fucking flannel in my goddamned life.


The shitty band upstairs

it’s drowning out the Bowie playing down here.

That’s OK.

Bowie always wins, in the end.


Final 20 WTF

My legs are killing me.

I’m scrubbing menus.

Literally to pass the time.

I think they’re already clean.

Missed a spot.


guest taps rotate.

we’ll tear the weekly menus out.

Hipsters rotate flannel patterns

One thing will never change.

No one will ever give a single FUCK FUCK FUCK

what the mousy little girl up front in writing in her crooked little book.

That’s the only power I have.

This night, it’s exactly as long as it feels.





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