Douglas Blazek

In the cafe words eat
applesauce. Fried foods.

They pull screams over their heads
and work their jaws like valises.

A grunt becomes a bison.
A plate becomes a plain.

Flocks of silverware are snared mid-air.
Coffee arrives in a khaki cup.

Power is spiced with mustard
greens and curry powder.

Next a city, a mid-sized
city, is mauled by eating-etiquette.

Future after future is chewed
like newspaper in a paper shredder.

Can you hear the gargle?
Bourbon at the throat root?

Finally air is clear as starbreath.
Peace is thicker than exhaustion.

The words are finished eating.
Nothing remains but the words.