Scrambled
Punch a goose in the gut
I’m a glutton for the gold
Impatient for that fancy egg
Let’s eat before I’m old
Workin on the turnover
Ink is getting dry
Better thread the needle
lest it sticks into my eye
So I take that golden
heaven sent pod
and split the shell with a mighty crack
Yolk of the gods spill freely
upon this invisible map
revealing the labyrinth
hiding the deepest seed
Twisted trails to the tangled horns
Monstrous shadow in the ooey gooey center
of our own egg-shelled psyche
The road inward
is the never-ending knot
Just when we loosen one side of string
we tighten the other
in a manic game of cat’s cradle
feverishly trying to untie ourselves
But I’ve forgone the fumbling fingers
I prefer to soak
in the golden yolk
My ball of existential yarn wet with
the shimmering source
of all things robust
and wholly brand new
The knot shrouding
my shadowed center
able to slip from itself
and fall apart
freely
.
.
.
