Fronting Guests

Behind the gleaning bar
I make my final
lean. To them I look,
I make matter what they say drink
and think. Between their eyes is a smoke
signal rising like gravity failing plumed dust.
Hungry bodies release true
curmudgeons within. How can
we stay united when stitched so thin under
the weight of pouring, generic assholeness?
Your assholeness is one indigenous
to our front. One that is fetid, loosely
stemming from the anal undergrowth
of unhappy people. Unhappy yourself
elsewhere,
somewhere else where you can
sing like hoarse frogs to
suits without ties
and bright artwork
and for fifty minutes
and for fortunes an hour
for paid nodding and hmming.
Do you see this? This plate is unacceptable. This is not
what I wanted
what I wanted
what I wanted
what I wanted?
What you want
is not found here.