by Mike Young

I was going to bike to Cumberland Farms and buy
eggs, but my bike doesn't work. The end of the
joke is "and I don't like eggs," which is

bullshit. I love eggs. Emma S, you said my last
breakfast poem had like an overdose of "breakfast
this, breakfast that-- okay, we get it." So just

eggs. Jupiter eggs. Eggs in a musket barrel.
Eggs with New Jersey tans. Eggs on an all-
expenses paid vacation to Lick That Lick!

(Emma: please suicide-by-cop the bad lines.
Anything short of an emotional Tang-shot.
If it doesn't hit a bird with its pitch: cut.

It's on you, girl. I've really invested a lot in this
"bad boy," so let's not go and make a frat initiation
causality of a fine young poem like myself, like all my

friends! I've got so many poem friends. They all
sexy as pine needles and obsessed with Indian
reparations as a metaphor for "bad party gifts.")

Eggs white people like. Eggs in a sad cartoon,
but only in cameos for the unfazed to hunt, like
"Look! There's one by that cancer slut's hammock!"

I'm not worried at all. She's got a Will to live
for. He played Wesley on Star Trek and he's always
meaning things and thinking about when to mean next.

I was going to bike to Cumberland Farms and buy
anything at all that would feel like an asterisk
looks by itself on a page by itself at night.