Thursday, January 12, 2017


I know I could do better,
but I never mind eating messes
of over-scrambled eggs
for breakfast, lunch, and dinner
because of the way

they always remind me of something
I can't remember. First—it's weird, how
they didn't come cheap
considering how fragile their
worldviews all turned out to be.

Then there's the way they get
all stringy and off-color-pastel-tired
after their personal spaces get violated,
their pure potential having been (to put it mildly)
overshot in the heat;

but at the end of the day,
it's okay—they're still vaguely
on the savory side
of plain, still contain enough bulk
to seem to count for something.

They still sport some intentional level
of skill-dependent composure
when they're finally all laid-out;
they're usually best remembered
for being warm and homespun,

not for being pretty; and of course,
the dispatch of the whole dire
consumptive procedure itself
usually leaves its executor feeling
both—penitent and satisfied.