Poem Draft

Eggs from Anywhere

The codicil to my third will (the official one) reads:

One, don't give nothing to anybody. Take the money

in cash and throw it under the mud-packed wheels

of your car in the bumfuckingest place you can find.

If you can find a place that was on reality TV, cool.

Two, don't eat the nachos from Chili's or the eggs

from anywhere; they are related in that ingestion

might kill a weak woman or a tweaker man. I wish

the birds would not twitter in my ear when I make

decisions. It's fucked up enough in here. I wish for

you, number three, the magic number, that all the days

of your life you will find roses in the tassels of your horse's

mane billowing out into better metaphor and a landslide

of clean fill that temblors down the back roads

of the choked creeks that yield orange rocks, no fish

but the pretty stones stained with runoff and the greasy

pizza pieces left over by a million students who sit on the banks

stoned thinking that they're feeding the fish; god knows

the fish don't eat that shit either. Back to number four,

I'm afraid. I'm afraid all the time. I sit in my closet floor

and caparison myself to no avail. The world wants my body,

I say, and slam the door. Monopoly and Risk fall on my

head, and the little man in the top hat runs into the other

room to fuck my wife. Is that all? the voices say. It simply

can't be all. But that's the thing itself. This IS ALL you get.