deepundergroundpoetry.com

Microchip Mike

I walk into this burger joint
looking forward to getting my meat on
because I’d spent most of the day
getting the evil cheese sweats
thinking about that junk binge
 
I’m faced with this deadpan kid
pubes for a beard, glaring at me
from beneath a lit-up price board
adorned with photos of the food
 
(an artists interpretation of course
because everyone and their dog knows
they serve it on a snow shovel
and if you’re real lucky
you might just avoid spitsville)
 
“You want fries with that?”  
monotone-pube-face drones
into the ice cubes
 
“Is the Pope Jewish?” I retort.  
 
Nothin’.
 
Stone-walled.  
 
Now I understand
that people gotta make a living
but we’re making robots outta teeth,
slapping slogans on ‘em
and calling it a conversation
 
at least Cindy at the store
remembers how to smile
which is more than I can say
for microchip Mike.
 
I don’t want much out of life,
but if I’m gonna spend dollars
clogging my careless arteries
let me die before a man
that doesn’t require me
to swipe my card  
through his ass crack
to register he’s alive.
24601
Written by 24601 (John Brady)
Published
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