have fallen away.
No fennel. No onions any more. No rosemary, no cheese.
All these, pulled beneath the surf
like Godzilla, turning her scaly back on us, taking our
early egg experiments down with her
in a foamy splash.
It’s Tabasco now, every time.
Salt, pepper, chili powder. Basil, fresh when possible.
Big old curds. Not too dry.
Come back Godzilla. Come back
and we’ll make
crazy eggs.
Just a reminder: You promised me that one of these days you would put out a CD of your music, and that it would be called “Music to Eat Eggs By.” I plan on holding you to that.
…if I started counting up the number of egg-related promises I made that I have no intention of keeping, I’d probably get to 12! I haven’t decided if this is one of them or not….
-Cecil
yes, and what of your promise to freeze your eggs? i’m pretty sure you’ve missed the window on that, mr. vortex.
i would pay to watch you try taking godzilla’s eggs…running from the nest with one egg hoisted on your back…slowly, cracks form on the fragile surface…a godzillaette pokes its curious head and jaws out…and bites your noggin clean off.
don’t mess with godzilla. just remember what happened to mothra and megalon. seriously, you need to remember…rememberrrrrr (i’m channeling spock now).