Thursday’s Poem – Dealers of Death

Dealers of Death

They all circled
one big round table.
The anticipation was alive
in the spittle on their lips.
No one was talking
or looking at anyone else.
The fish was so fresh
you could smell the salt.
When the server brought
that huge platter of rolls
hands and eyes tore through
the empty space above the table.
So much sushi
decimated in a cloud
of rice and splintered chop sticks.
3 spider rolls, gone.
2 pokey rolls, washed away.
4 Alaska and 3 California rolls noshed with fury.
Countless other fish and veggie blends
caught between teeth and tongue.
On that cold, angry night
sea and field were emptied.

When the meal finished
the small plates were stacked hap-hazardly.
Overturned cups and saucers
stank of disregard.
A thin coat of soy sauce and wasabi
was splattered on everything.
A greenish-blackish sheen.
The innocents at surrounding tables
looked on with horror.
This was a scene of true destruction.

At the end everyone sat
leaning back and sweating.
Sipping water and mashing ginger in their teeth.
Someone let slip a pained groan.
A small sign of weakness,
tired from the kill.

-Michael Bussmann

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About Pineapple

He tried to call himself, "Malibu." But, you know the rules - you don't get to pick your own nickname. The word "pineapple" came to mind. Sorta tropical, spikey & rough, sweet on the inside. And so a nickname was born. "Bike mechanic, poet, sage, former collegiate hockey star. Ok, maybe not a star." (This should really be updated. He works for New Belguim now.) "i am full time bicycle mechanic, and all around nice guy. like to ride bikes, but not very far. like poetry, candle-light dinners, and short walks on the beach. i don't like getting hassled, and i don't like capitalization." Fort Collins, Colorado, USA

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