What do I want now?
Desires come knocking,
door to door
vacuum-cleaner salesmen
pondering if I could
spend a dime of
my time deciding
whether or not to
allow my miles of
scroll and scripture to
get tangled together
with those of another
(again)
as I switch between playing
the role of the
consumer and the
mother
(again)
What do I want now?
Can I look to the stars
or consult the seeing cards?
I can't help but
sprint down the
slippery summer streets,
calling out the songs of
Renaissance bards when the
universe is singing our praises and
we're singing them back, oh
cut me some slack and
I'll cut you a track of
my latest attack on
society's lack of wanting to
wait and see what blooms in
the forest of discarded facts,
figures, and old slacks worn
by the dead while they
bury my head underground with
feet dangling in the air.
What do I want now?
Will the willpower to
state with a proud (and
preferably legs-spread-
shoulders-back-
neck-straight) stance that
just maybe I might be
better off with bug bites and
a bitter taste in my mouth when-
ever I see couples kissing than a
stinking fascination with the
feeling of fingertips on femurs and
eyelids fluttering in
metronome timed fervor.
What do I want now?
For lady luck to walk in
disguised as a molten lava
poltergeist with electric sides
pulling me in, my
north to her south,
to whisper, "Don't forget:
permission permanently granted to
project that voice and
protect that mouth."
What do I want now?