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.
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