The Egg Dreams of the Iron Chef…

The bathroom sink’s clogged with hair and toothpaste. I watch cooking shows late at night. Eggs always stick to non-stick pans. I soak in a caffeine buzz on the matress. I drool at meaningless possessions, a square flashcube hums before a ball rolls around the room and closes. Strange metallic sand. Salty afternoon with a cool orange sun, children laughing, popsicles dripping down exposed spines. I ride my bike at night, swerving down alleys…darting across busy highways. Little brothers scream down hallways. In dreams, children roam in gangs, sporting milk mustaches.

In the AM— I roll over to see hair standing on end, reflected in the black clock face that grins, bombarding reddened eyeballs
with blaring archaic cryptograms that buzz, begging to be cracked like an egg on the counter, a fly in a sleepy irritated ear.



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