mania, at 7:32am

 

 

 

I had boiled eggs this morning

and the round yokes turned into the sun.

The bacon

 

fried itself into

the stewards of the airline. Some

with model figures,

some not.

 

They shout,

before the plane plunges into the sea,

a professedly purer moral code

than mine.

 

As soon, thereafter, as I drank the orange juice,

I felt suicidal,

sitting quietly in the room

 

with the mechanical bed. Those

who write poetry should skip

breakfast all-together.

 

As they say, that most important meal

of the day.

Reviews

[Horizon K.]

This makes me think about what we use to nurture ourselves-- what is needed by our bodies, what is needed by our hearts-- and how these intersect to align --or be at odds with the other-- that our emotional needs might overpower the physical...
But breakfast, is indeed important. Our minds need to feed-- both body and soul.

A cool poem Dana... I love how you pull concepts from the sky, or the plate... Or both at the same time...

[Tree]

So imaginative, so fluid, the way your mind works. I've been skipping breakfast for a long time, some people, have told me it's not healthy. What they should have said is that a poem, a good one, might be served/ along side of it.
Nice work here, Dana. Your ability to reach your creative powers in and out of the mundane, then to nurture and foster that inside the incubator of your rich imagination, is truly, a gift...

Diego Paz

[Frontier]

I love how cryptic this is, the strange associations...

I think breakfast is strange because its what actually resurrects us from that brief death period of night, dipping into that dream-world for a few hours...then at the breakfast table, one may think about what just happened.

the most interesting I've read today.

[Ken Simm.]

Now I'm finding your diet intellectually stimulating.

[jacob erin-cilberto]

i absolutely love the breakfast metaphor in this...i wonder why it is that poets seldom write using lunch or dinner metaphors ....something about breakfast...maybe we just get toasted when we eat it and the words spill like coffee onto the saucer of pages.
the part about the plane and feeling suicidal after the orange juice...all reminds me of that plane they still haven't found...
a story that is still not quite digested...

your words fill me up so nicely, i am never really hungry for lunch, afterwards.