Eggs
by Jordan Krall


I tell him my story. He takes me. My wallet is fried pap. And my words are dissected while I am sleeping. And clanking, falling & pulling. Calling names while Mister pushes me through his puckered eye socket. He lost all ambition and so: I am squeezed, combined, licked, twirled. La-la-la.
        Pick-pockets dissect my kneecap but leave my clock untouched. It strikes noon : Cuckold! Cuckold!         It won't be the same, whispering, battering, redundancy. Mister puts me into the backseat and starts the car, driving, driving, driving, and driving. Sunlight through the trees provides seizures; I tremble under a cloud and spit up crusted & painted yoke. Two bits. La-la-la.
        When we reach our destination I reach up into the front seat and pull the radio apart: I have no purpose but I still struggle towards a goal. I lick the knobs, I tongue the controls. I am out of control. Mister pushes me back and straightens his tie. A bundle of soiled magazines sits beside me. Flap caps and hairy flare guns splattering forty-year-old cheeks into cock-eyed oblivion. Ballistic pancakes and flat cod. Fa-la-la.
        Mister struggles to keep composure and from across the street comes Mary skipping in a skirt, no shirt, flap jacks playing gravity’s game bruising her jaw. A tooth comes loose, rolls towards the sewer, a Chinese cat bats it around. In a fury Mister leaves the car and punches Mary in the ribcage and calls her a name. I send my feet through the back window. La-la-la.
        There is a diner across the street. I send myself like a letter, through the back window, past Mister & Mary and into the diner. I sit at the counter. The waitress is short, plump, shimmering like a star. Her nose resembles a typewriter. It sniffs.
        he menu.
        And I order eggs.