Thank goodness I am both the egg and its contents: safe, warm – removed from the volatile world and its shape-shifting landscape – heart and mind feign control: neither are convinced – a paragon of uncertainty. And I know the chick. I am no chicken! When I wake, I think it impossible to navigate whatever part of the day it may be. My eyes’ open; therefore, I blink. I blink for those who can or cannot (I am temporary darkness’s ocular bastion – but not less lightness’s.) How can an egg blink? And how can an egg weather absurdity with such blinking accusations? Blinking! Blinking? Ha! (A blinking egg in its totality?) My fortitudinous makeup precipitates transferable effusion – blind and misguided (deluded denial fills this accusatory pathological glut; my penchant for overbearingness; 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 yellow-green sun stretches across surrealisms’ sad expanse, can color’s integrity identify ails? Or does the sky’s manipulative pallet wallow in incurable Lyme-like sickness? (Did conception enact your perpetual nocebo effect?) Where do yellow-green shadows sleep at night? (In a Dali painting?) I’d like to believe they retire to the space between bridge and water, or to a green planet with green lands and green men speaking verdantly with exception to the egg – its entirety. And as cricket leg’s green hues stridulate arpeggiated D locrian notes, their ethereal tonal mode sets The Absurd’s insecurity ablaze with its limpid enigmatic flames.If your pineal predicts this, your portent eyes rewrite the future and are therefore christened unflappable. Your visual recall is humbled by conspicuous nascency, and not for lack of sight – for lack of vision (a memoria technica error, a distorted nostalgic recall).

            I could lie (I am lying?). I could be conventional. I could hope to mold my will into fermented star fruits – or an obstinate aloe plant sapped of its healing properties – or an acquiesced surfeit (again) – or a dragged down and philosophically drown tumescent obelisk midst public castigation as their stentorian anti-fascist incantations fill the air – or, just simply, with surgical precision, remove my veins through my skin and hang my body like a broken chime. Maybe I’ll return to rock dust and travel windward and embrace inevitable silicosis. And, at this, I will not talk (nor breathe with ease – anymore). An egg may present as garrulous (symbolic misgivings); may I assure you of its muteness – and even if blessed (or cursed) with loquacious verbosity, the egg spoke its peace millennia ago. Besides, words are applied flecks of cotton atop gushing lacerations. Words are archaic biblical misfits. Words are symbols lost in their meanings. Words are the burgeoned printing presses of American currency. Words are swirling plastic pieces corrupting cetacean blowholes. Words are a walnut’s ribbon in telescopic view – 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 inside the egg it is silent. The truth is silent. Art is silent. Art is patient. The egg is art.

            And I am not trapped. I am static and inert like a Vietcong’s phantom limb – post battle 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 intergenerational trauma; it wriggles in my albumen and chalazae – much like how I imagine the Brothers Hitler feel (genetic madness in a moment’s distorted clarity). However, Hitler’s descendants are innocent bystanders when pressed against the burning world. And what is left? What is left is the world’s greatest view from the bottom of a discarded Crowlian ampule. So what to do with these beautiful and brilliant flowers losing petals feather by feather like an alpaca’s eyelash shedding or a snakeskin’s molting plates? 

            Can the egg handle the pressure of Jesus loaves and fishes? – “Or…” as Mr. Hughes so eloquently inquires, “…does it explode?” (Does it? I do not want to explode, but I long for a combusting spontaneous death.) And this indestructible antipodal gesture in eggshell form, with its impregnable calcium carbonate casing, empties its aborted intent to feed dissolute malnourished souls – we infringe upon brackish whole-hearted madness seeking artful solutions for gerrymandered spirits – the egg, in all its pensive silence (both real and imagined) reaches beyond spiritual and cellular limitations to refrain from going completely fucking mad.

The goddamn frog is boiling. #fauxdancingfroginhotwater #it’sabouttime #godlovesagoodstew