Here it is,
here's your plan
there's nothing beyond it,
it makes me sad to see you reach low like this
You want a fancy car
A fancy house
A fancy woman
(who only says
the right things,
quietly,
at the right times)
A large salary
No problems
Miniature models of yourself
well-behaved and clean
You want a stable, antiseptic love
Something static and sterile
Here's news,
If ever I was in tune with
Hermes and his speed and unashamedness,
(He was ever proud of being the God of Thieves)
His partnership with Iris as messengers
It is in speaking to you, now
My dream is not your 'American'
Because if it was,
It would be neat and profitable
Copyrighted to unnamed sources
I don't want that
I want, chiefly,
something frenetic,
Nothing tidy about it,
Cluttered with memories both wondrous and awful
A proudly imperfect man
To share flaws with
To say "You too? I thought I was the only one!"
Problems to muddle through
And be caught in
And solve, with a happy crow of triumph
A small garden, which I will probably end up killing anyway
Rambunctious, willful children
Who will not be afraid to challenge me
Whom I will teach to argue intelligently
Raised to be civil and
Above all, to be curious
I will not mind the mud
And the blood
And the pain
So much at the end
Because I will be able to die
Without shame for the life I lived
What I am trying to say,
with the hope you are not injured,
is that I don't want a part of your envisioned future
I don't want such sweet synthetic sterility
I supremely enjoy the whole of the mess