Oak Park Breakfast

OAK PARK BREAKFAST

BY ROSS BERMAN

It's a thursday morning gold mine.

Not like tuesday's, never like tuesday's.

Tuesday's gold mine bled first.

Bled, then burned and painted the buildings golden brown.

I watched it from a steam ship.

First the blood, then the flood,

up the sky and over the buildings.

Yellows and oranges and blues and reds,

up and up and up.

I took a picture.

It was much more violent, than to the naked eye.

Apocalyptic photo,

doomsday on a cheap movie poster

or an album cover.

I'm an aimless hornet's nest

searching for a corner booth.

Holy! Holy! Holy!

We put eggs on things here.

This is America and we put eggs on things.

This is the way the world ends,

the future feeds the past.