Poetry

Vodka Omelet

Make it clear in my mind, Jesus,

am I whacked-out on Double Cross Vodka

or have I flipped out calling myself

Limburger omelet chef?

I hate question marks and angels

with crazed wings.

You know the type, John the Baptist

toking weed, stoned out of his mind, storyteller,

foul smells from poor hygiene, eating habits

open mouth, swallowing grasshoppers,

so silky, smooth as sweet honey.

Add 3 eggs in a skillet, Parmesan/Romano blend,

2 cheeses add-on, shiitake mushrooms, turmeric,

chopped kale, hint hot chili peppers, cheers.

Scramble me, I’m cracked.

I rock faith in jungle music, dance nude.

Everything is a potential poem to me.

My omelet, my life, my booze, master cook,

vodka

omelet

2:38 a.m.

 

                                                 ~ Michael Lee Johnson

                                               Itasca, IL, USA

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