I.
I want someone to pay me to sit inside a room
with a shallow ceiling and no windows
and bang rocks together like I'm trying to start the first fire.
II.
A cloud needs to open up
like a child digging through the silverware draw,
brandishing a piece of Wolfgang Puck cutlery
and cutting along the seam of a throw pillow,
pouring waves of water into my grass
that hasn't been nourished in weeks.
Dandelions can sprout up, for all I care.
III.
Be the ultimate something for someone.
Maybe cup my hands
and let warm water fill the hypothetical flesh cup
and they can drink from hands in desperation.
Panting breaths like a dog with heart disease,
with a colon clogged by undigested kibble
and pine tree thistle.
Their tounge can lap the drops from my finger tips.
I wouldn't even want a thank you
just a look with tearing eyes would be nice.
IV.
Explain something I don't know
to somebody who knows.
Crawl into a professors lap and
nurture their soul.
Adequately explain something layered
using long words.
I want them to stroke my head
and rub the dead skin behind my ears
and say that's good
or I like this over and over again.
V.
Get overwhelmed with a case of
the gotta'-see-ems'. I want to run
through a crowded mall
and dig through trash cans,
spilling the pretzel wrappers
over the rim that's stained
with rootbeer float.
There will be mothers sitting in tandem
around a fountainhead of a frog
and toddler leaning over
spitting water in the shape of an X.
I'll rifle through their bags
just because I need to see presents:
the action figured forged from crimson and alloy.
The gun that shoots plastic darts,
the roadster filled with blonde dolls in
denim skirts. Sweaters, button-down stuffs
I just need to see it because it's something.
VI.
Run full-speed at a sliding glass window
and get Frankenstein stitched-up.
It needs to feel like a movie
I'll have the feeling you get when
you're laying in the hospital and the IV
in your arm pumps something clear
into the bend of your elbow.
Suddenly, everything feels wrong
and the bottom of your stomach feels like
someone blue sitting alone in a diner
drinking something cold with a straw.
VII.
Tape each leaf back onto a tree
so they won't get cold in winter.
Drive by, see me outside wearing layers.
See my lips dog dick red from
November wind inside a valley.
VIII.
Down an entire six-pack of
whatever sounds good at the time.
I want to clutch the can like
it's a husband's hand while giving birth.
I'd like to do this in public.
On a street corner, spinning
and pirouetting around a stop sign,
screaming limpdick at everyone who walks by.
IX.
Provide insurance information
to a couple outside their house while
the stucco smolders and glows like a child's toy.
Their tones won't change, and I'll get louder
when wood starts to splinter,
turn black and fall to the ground in heaps.
I want to sell something
I know nothing about.
X.
I want to be out in the ocean
in a boat just large enough to hug me.
The boat is empty. I would never get hungry.
Dreaming about food would
quell my stomach.
Piles of steaming bread,
corn. Made from frail, pale hands.
Blue would stretch on forever.
I would go until something stopped me.
A fleck of dirt and sand.
No comments:
Post a Comment