Molested Eggs

A mortgage wasn't exactly handed to us with a smile and a handshake, our being poets and all. I clearly remember the endless trips to the bank and the saccharine smiles of the blue suit behind the desk. When we finally were approved it was only because one of my pieces sold, as ad copy. I sighed a lot when the acceptance letter arrived, but I decided to go through with it. What's a little compromise among artists anyway? All the Angst was worth it though, to see the look on that bank toad's face.

"It's a pleasure to see you, again. How can we serve you today?"

My hands breezed through the shimmering pages of the magazines lying in my lap. "I thought I might stop by and, oh, get your approval on that loan we wanted."

The smile floated up. "I'm very sorry, but I thought I'd been quite clear before in our policy. No matter what the, perceived, value of your work may be, the bank is primarily concerned with collateral."

I stood from the winged back chair, dropping the monthlies on his desk, open to my art that was now selling face créme or furs or trips to Grand Cayman. I punctuated each magazine plop with "Collateral." When the pages of the Cosmos and the New Yorkers, Marabella's and Condé Naste's were all reflecting the recessed lighting that fell from the ceiling, I allowed the first of my royalty checks to flutter onto them.

His eyes danced across the check's zeros: my pen across the acceptance form.


The 60's were a misdirected time. All those people walking around, unshowered, looking for spiritual enlightenment in another toke or another dose. With this in mind, a poet commune in the new millennium honestly didn't sound like the best of all possible worlds. Andy always argued in its favor, though.

"No, see, before they were creating new societies based on the principle of shared responsibility. They were self-sufficient and grew their own food and livestock. We'll be cocooning ourselves because work is man's greatest enemy, and there'll be a 7-Eleven on the corner."

"Yeah, I know, it's that whole 'acceptable materialism' thing, but I don't want to put up with some hippie chomping down on his granola when I'm trying to eat my veal. You know, I'm kinda turned-on by the fact that they keep the calves in those small pens and force feed them all those hormones and stuff."

"Who isn't?"

"It still bothers me, though."

"Look, no hippies, I promise. Just yippies and beatniks. We'll be the new Jack Kerouacs, riding around with paperback Camus' in the pockets of our army fatigues."

"Armani fatigues?" I smiled.

"Yeah, I think I saw some in that Vanity Fair over there."


Our group is called Molested Eggs. It's printed on a hand-painted sign above the door of our four story colonial. It's Fall, and Vermont is beautiful. Andy's been spending most of his time staring at the Mikasa teacups, trying to come up with a good internal rhyme for Snuffelupogus for his series of poems on Saturday Morning TV.

He has this one sonnet to Fred Flintstone, that just makes me sob openly.

Most of our group is here now; Wakefield arrived yesterday. We heard his car stereo blaring Ministry's "Just One Fix" so loud that the windows were bucking, trying to ride the vibrations. He entered the house shooting off his AK-47 Hemmingways. "This place is too corporate. It needs atmosphere. Where's the Vodka?" Wake was of the mind that no great poetry came from an unsodden mind. Rage is fuel of his word machine, and that's cool. He was the Id of the house's Superego.

In our artist colony suburbia, where the suburbs meet Utopia, I find myself wondering how long it might last. It's been years since my Madison Avenue submission, and The Ave has been very good for me. Right now I'm doing a series of promotional spots for euthanasia centers; Atlantic Monthly's expressed an interest. The rest of the house hums smoothly along. None of us has had to drop our stuff to word-process or messenger or teach, and I imagine that's quite an accomplishment. As for our being Kerouacs, I'm skeptical.

But my Armani fatigues are neatly pressed, hanging in the armoire.

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