All I Want To Do
I took thunder from the clouds, I pounded passion out of drums, I hurt electricity out of feeling. I conjured poetry out of everything to glory in cloth and benediction. I invented an ego in order to jeer. I chiseled a piece of energy out of a temperature in order to prolong a fever. I did everything I could to assist the intimacy of orange. I did not harm anyone, or employ anyone, or wax Copernican in a laundromat. I put words together in order to create completely unnecessary objects. I did this to both honor and condemn the behavior of the Vikings. Bankers: let me alone. NPR: let me alone. I know so little about investing money or caring for the financial security of my future I could not help a dollar to eventually become a snicker or a nickle become an actual Monticello. Anchor people and pundits: I can create a jukebox to drown your propoganda. All I want to do is write poetry. All I want to do is go bowling with Michael Moore. All I want to do is star in a movie by Joel Coen. All I want to do is rule the universe. All I want to do is be friends with you. All I want to do is turn bullets to bon bons. All I want to do is write a line of nutmeg. Life is a bust. I believe in boysenberry. Speech seems to be the best available instrument for protruding muskelunge and deer. The expense of spirit in a waste of shame is lust in action, and till action, lust is a hormone, a chemical immediate as peach to a peach tree. I see sophistry in shale, nativity in shall. I see skeletons in motion and spice in space. Union in onion and pins in opinions. All I want to do is yank a yak from my throat. All I want to do is make love to you. All I want to do is dream. Dream dream dream. But what I really want to do is yank a yak from my throat.