Bass lines like fat men squeezing into
3rd grade desks.
Coltraneís squealing right before I was born.
a pill that makes
the music in my head stop.
Immediately, then I wonít know
what Iím missing.
I want dissimilar words, hyphenated
by minty fresh breath. What good
if no one will listen?
A way-back machine, so I can fix.
William Shatner, circa 1967:
guest host for my 8th birthday party.
Iím wishing for mandibles, clipping
the staccato lilt of my phrasing.
Mandibles to tailor a new dress.
My woman needs one.
Then I want X-ray vision,
so I can ignore
what I wish for.
In the semi-embarrassment of silence,
I want to understand
why Goya used spoons to paint
instead of leaves.
If nothing else, I want
a map with the exact location
of the crossroads, so I can believe
what I never should have known.