SUNDAY BREAKFAST

As the world waxes increasingly surreal, and the wake of dreams glows luminous even after waking, the poet cracks his egg and perceives – to his dire horror – an eye. A fucking eye? Poe or Lovecraft? Wither the chicken and the road uncrossed? The egg-eye stares back at him with what might be reproach. Does it resent his importunate morning intrusion? Or was it too long a night in the Saturn Lounge with girls of the Toad Forest? Should he fear that some albumen revenge will be meted out to him when he is low and least expecting the maybe deserved untoward? Or is it simply that, on this bright April day, it his mind has finally cracked with the rising of the a rooster morning sun and reason has snapped and hallucination holds sway, consigning him to an eternal landscape of fissured pavements, Granada cloudscapes, distorted limbs, and soft slither-sliding chronometers? Or is it just that the yolk is one him?

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The secret word is Shriek