Thank goodness I am both in the egg and its contents: safe, warm, and removed from a world I know impossible to comprehend – feigned domicile control (and heart and mind). I know of no chicken. I am no chicken! When I wake: I do not blink. I do not blink for you; I do not blink for me; I blink. How can an egg blink? And, how can an egg weather such absurdities, such as a blinking egg accusation? Blinking! Blinking? Ha! A blinking egg in its totality. There have been known more caustic remarks of my fortuitous structure – effused transference, blind and misguided (hurtful words of deluded denial fill an accusatory pathological glut; my penchant for overbearing; my penchant for arrogance; the perceived spineless behaviors of my hopeless wanton character (but an egg is strong – is it not?). I am no egg: I am not in the egg. There is no shell without yolk’s albumen and no yolk’s albumen without shell. From roots to branches, from hyphae to fungi.
When the shadows set on a yellow-green sun can the permeate colors facilitate ails? Or does one just present as sick? (Was it conception that enacted your perpetual nocebo?) Where do the green shadows sleep at night? I’d like to believe they inhabit a green planet with green lands and green men speaking verdantly with exception to the egg – its entirety. Atmospheric vibrations fill the green tinted air with lush ethereal tones: cricket leg stridulations crescendo in D major arpeggios with unprecedented verdancy – the night is warm, and we all in some way or another, limpid and on fire. If your mind’s eye has seen this scene, you are capable of rewriting history and can predict your future – your obdurate eyes christened unflappable. If your visual recall is humbled by conspicuous nascence, not only can you not see it, it is a vivid memory incapable of extant(s).
I could lie. I could be conventional. I could hope to be molded into a starfruit – or an aloe plant – or an obsequent surfeit (again) – or a dragged down and philosophically drown obelisk as it’s hauled through corrupt streets by freedom fighters and anti-fascist incantations. Maybe I’ll return to rock dust and travel windward to silicosis ends. And at this, I will not talk. An egg may seem garrulous (but that is just its external sheen). I assure you it is mute – for there is truly nothing left to say. Words are flecks of cotton on gushing lacerations. Words are archaic biblical misfits. Words are symbols of misattributed meanings. Words are the burgeoning printing presses of American currency. Words are swirling plastic pieces fisting unsuspecting dolphin holes. Words are a walnut’s ribbon viewed telescopically – a great distance and convincing. Words have no proof. They have no proof; no proof and no meaning because only truth permeates the egg – and in the egg it is silent.
And I am not trapped. I am static and inert like a man’s phantom limb in the province Gia Dinh. Just as the Brother’s Hitler (there are three) of Long Island, they long to cease their DNA. I am in the egg. I am the sanguine heir to their humanity, and I cannot in good conscience continue – mind fraught with disgust and inter generational trauma; it wriggles in my albumen and chalazae – much like how I imagine the Brothers Hitler feel (genetic madness in a moment’s clarity). However, Hitler’s descendants are innocent bystanders when juxtaposed to our burning (philosophically, socially, economically, and literally) world. And what is left? And what is left is the world’s greatest view from the bottom of a well enveloped by Crowlian-like madness. So what to do with these beautiful and brilliant flowers losing petals feather by feather, eyelash by eyelash, shedding like snakeskin plates?
Can the egg handle the pressure like Jesus’s loaves and fishes? – “Or…,” as Mr. Hughes so eloquently postulates in “Harlem,” “…does it explode?” And as this (at its antipodes at least) impregnable calcium carbonate casing, rarefied with each malnourished bite, is infringed upon by brackish wholehearted madness seeking artful solutions to gerrymandered souls, the egg, in all its pensiveness, both real and imagined, reaches beyond the depths of its spiritual and cellular capacity to refrain from going completely fucking mad.
The frog is boiling.