If you dissect the poem, this is what you will find: a handful of broken glass, salt bedding routes into our cheeks. If you crack an egg, something spills. The rabbit is limp & yet, the moon continues to glow. The rabbit is limp & yet, here I am, mouth stupid and dry. Palm of river & yellow yolk. Skin deep as plums, tender & smooth. A cartographer composed entirely of incidental histories. Thin slices of lemon. Pink belly & dive. When we must, we learn what we are capable of.
For the coconut oil and egg yolk: how much do you use, how often, for how long, and how do you apply?
I usually mix moroccan coconout oil with yellow egg yolk in a little bowl (depends on how thick/thin you hair is) then when its perfectly mixed i use food brush to apply on my hair, then use a shower cap to keep the oiled hair warm.
I do this atleast twice a week, but before every shower i always apply either olive oil or almond oil and leave it 2 hours.
In his office, the hollow-eyed Professor of Necromancy taps absently at his phone. He is re-making his calendar. His most loyal client has thoughtfully left him a message about the state of her future appointments. He has quite a few vacancies, now.
A student slips out to campus parking on silent feet. He carries very little: a wagon, filled with Snoballs, slightly singed; a beetle-black suitcase, twice as big as his torso; a pitching tent, Hannah Montana, stuck with coarse black fur on one side. Five shaggy black bodies follow dutifully behind. He has nothing to give them - nothing but goodbye, and a carefully stapled sheaf of papers addressed To Ram, take good care of them for us, we’re counting on you - and they know it already. They are simply here to see him off. His letter of confession is folded quaintly, innocuously, next to a body in the locker room. It leans against one yolk-yellow wall, face peaceful. The sixth of the hounds sits vigil at its feet.
Save for the brief grumble of an engine rolling awake, there is little to break the stillness, and as it pulls out of the lot the car avoids the light of the night classes’ windows.
The night is quiet. The girl-shaped shadow perched primly in Beau’s passenger seat stays quiet too.
The city sparrow hops on the exposed piping of a sprinkler, the machine left for dead, half tinkling over a mountain of brown dirt, woodchips, and cigarillo butts. The flowers are in the deathbed of the sprinkler, all off-yellow egg-yolked onto Teflon stems melting out over the skillet making an omelette with the mushrooms: white-grape and blueberry cigar ends. The bird leaves and the shrieking roaches ask why, the sparrow says “Poo-tee-weet.”