motorcycle hatchery

i was the reved engine of your expectations.
inside the cement shells of future gods,
the yolk is eggplant purple & iridescent.
along my street men become dragons
in their brief night rides. they are trying
to be born. not again but for a first time.
upset at every lack, i hurl eggs 
at the moon. luckily, none smash on her face.
sometimes i feel like my impulses are not me
but then, frightefully, i rememeber they are.
my brother once punched a hole 
in our dining room wall. i want to frame it
& call it "family portrait." you talk 
unkindlt about your tarantula, saying
"she's only a collection of electrical impulses."
how many motorcycles has she counted today?
has she considered what it's like
to be as fearful as a mammal? i can't cry at all
but i can swallow a drop of oil 
& wait for rainbow pools to come from my eyes.
we all have this desire to rip a hole
in the egg. for some it is an egg tooth
& other it is a motorcycle. helmets have been
growing on trees lately. you don't think of me
like i think of you. though, unfortunately,
this is a summary of being a species. 
i invent a machine that will always 
drive the distance. no longer will we sulk
like geese. i tried once to plant a peach tree.
pressed the pit into your chest while you slept.
instead a motocycle passed by the house
at that same minute & hour every night.
no peaches to be seen. i made a fist once
for so long that when i opened it 
there was a baby chick inside. 
what makes you soft? give me more of that.

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