Tear Gas In The Tip Jar
Surrounded by appearances
and scalping knives.
Pony tracks on the cafe ceiling . . .
Waitresses load logical objects.
I pull the pin on a blueberry muffin.
WMD wired to maraconi.
Tear gas in the tip jar.
Yellow Formica tables
barricade the windows.
break against them.
We should hold out
to the last burrito,
Per usual the people who know are dust
or preserved in honey,
tight-lipped in brass and marble monuments.
I have no time to wonder
about that jackass four hundred centerfolds from now
who wants to know what only I know.
I would say to that artificaly conceived man
to google they yellow pages for worm farms
and shove the rest up his memory hole.
I am just tired of being a sucker
in the subjective correlative audience
of this strip tease that ends in invisibility:
that white empty glove cooling on the dark stage.
That pale spot light about to turn out.
Bill Jansen lives in Forest Grove, Oregon. His works have appeared in various ezines.