breakfast

Breakfast

The breakfast does wait for me,


Everyday in the morning,


Apart from visiting the stomach,


It knows nothing.


 

I miss my breakfast occasionally,


Not that I am so hectic,


But owing to my indolence!


These words are really authentic!


 

Breakfast, the resource of food,

 

That for a sound health is truly good.

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Breakfast Scramble

 

Burning
Crispy and flaky
Always screaming
Where does the time run to?
A peel here 
And a scrape there 
Spreading on thin
What seems to accomplish the morning
What can all be put into a little cup
Of happiness? 
NO
Comfort?
NO
But closure; [[end task]]  
We cringe and boil into a frenzy
If motion isn't in our favor
what if we paused for one second
To give the clocks hands a break
So our nucleus can replenish
To Allow cells to renovate the mitochondria  
If we cracked open the shell 
took out the cholesterol 
We could see a more vivid bake 
Flipping and pouring out what contents we wished to have results for 
Pressing down on a home slice
Then buttering em up for the crowd
Pressure makes combustion
Be careful what you steam and strain
You don't want raw
But overcooked is trashy 
Pressure could create a hard soul 
On the other hand
That can't be broken or scathed 
In which were in 50/50 odds 
With our gods 
More or less rips in the seams let in 
Sunlight but also darkness
Fruit ripen then rot when kept away from the world regardless of good or bad company
Rambles scramble lingo into jargon
And Mumbo jumbo into conspiracy 
What we have is
what we got 
But what we want is
what we can make happen 
~~~~~~~

Hungry Mook

My eggshell cracked on the edge of the pan

after being handed from the car door

to the floor that seemed to be retreating

and rapidly receding, only to

appear again, only closer this time.

Where I expected sizzle I had rain

that pooled in the recesses made for grease.

There I proposed a treatise to myself:

never settle for breakfast when promised

a safe ride from the drop-off point to home;

at least not before the bacon arrives.

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Tiffany's and Iced Coffee

I’m in that mood.
The one you feel when it’s Friday.
The one you feel when you watch the end of Breakfast at Tiffany’s,
The one you feel when it’s a cloudy day,
And you put on a sad song,
A song that was written today, but should have been written in the nineteen-fifties,
Or sixties.
The one you feel when you want someone to love you,
And hold you in their arms,
But no one’s there.

I’m in that mood.
The one you feel when you’re in a car,
And you want to be in Las Vegas at night,
To see the lights.
The one you feel when you drink iced coffee,
Sugar-free, nonfat milk,
And it’s ten o’clock at night,
And it’s too late to be drinking iced coffee,
But you do it anyway,
Because you can.
The one you feel when your heart hurts,
For no reason at all,
Or lots of reasons you don’t know about,
Hurting over things that haven’t happened yet,
And you’re frustrated you can’t get them to happen.
So you wait for when it does.

I’m in that mood.
The one you feel when you grab a Pepsi the fridge,
Diet, on ice, in a glass,
Not in a cup,
And it’s eleven o’clock at night,
And it’s too late to be drinking diet Pepsi,
But you do it anyway,
Because you can.
The one you feel when you want to take a trip to a gas station,
To buy M&M’s with the peanut butter inside,
But not peanuts,
And more iced coffee,
But the gas station doesn’t sell iced coffee,
So you buy hot coffee and put it on ice,
And pretend you bought it that way.

I’m that mood,
The one you feel when you see a plastic bag in the parking lot,
And you know you should pick it up
and throw it away,
But you don’t,
And you feel guilty,
But then it goes away,
Because it really isn’t a big deal.
The one you feel when you want everything to be in black and white,
And you think about your life,
And how time goes by so quickly,
And how you never want this moment to end,
Because it’s perfect,
And you love the bitter sweetness of it.
And it’s too late to feel bittersweet,
But you do it anyway,
Because you can.