Curtis L. Crisler

 

the lobbiest: (the limbo between two worlds)

 
 

sitting, sub-comatosed, under the spell of
boredom, in waiting
room of Szechuan House (japanese/chinese eating hole)
you anticipate hot shrimp-fried rice,
can smell the strange aroma the
cooks manufacture behind swinging doors.
you think, “if they use cats they are top of the line.”
over the samisen, kabuki, music
2 white women sit in a booth 8 feet from you--
the black man w/ his attitude,
and talk about the younger lady's
struggle to keep her family immediate,
together--to keep her rebellious daughter synergic.
"Not Responsible For Lost
Or Stolen Goods" hangs
adjacent to exit sign.  black, chinese,
room divider w/ asian women stuck out front (in print)
posed in kimonos--rainbow's flowers, blocks your eyes.
"i don't know what to do
w/ her mom.  she is so much
trouble."  you engulf the "Sorry We Are Closed" sign
or apple/red fire extinguisher
to put out your eavesdropping ear/burn.
the saturation covers you well in its marinade.
air conditioning cools the vinyl, maroon, bench
you squiggle on.  96 degrees outside glass doors
where cars blare their quick/fast streaks,
on Coliseum Blvd, thirsty for carwashes,
backseat childhood levity, and proper steering.
"shwimp fwhied whice up, mizz-tuh!"
and you wonder if the accent is cantonese
and you wonder if you could be a spy
and you are up to comply
to her strange surrealistic general’s command
to grab your hunger--
a customer's bagged consumption filled
w/ soy sauce, hot mustard, notes in fortunes,
information carried out to your car,
brought home into living room
to uncover aromatic secret
in urbania’s olfactory wars.