she is a little more than a little tired of
lists. And litanies that go no
where, and
hail no one. it would be nice to be the
list, instead, being penned, being spun into be
ing, to be the logical result of a strong clear
desire. (all she can really remember
from that pirate
movie is that the compass only worked if
you could let yourself
wild yawp want it).
More. more (the word quivers at the nub
like something might be actually
happening).
More
magic beans.
Less stirring soup.
More of to fly into
a rage at the intrusion
more intrusion! less
steady golden eggs that bore her
into a whipless
stupor. More unknown. More parapets of cloud. More
lovers the size of small mountains. More rumbling
and coming apart at the fault lines.
More lava beneath me, she writes and grows
warm. Oh! How
that would burn...