I want to chop off
chunks of my
hair with a blunt
steak knife bit by
bit until my scalp
is pink and my knuckles glow
pale and distinct like planks
of bleached driftwood.

I want to spread paint
across my back into a
picture of the beach
and lay on it so that
maybe the scratch of the
sand will itch through my t-shirt
and then I can charge
horseshoe ***** to
build townhouses on my
empty lots.

I want to eat at a
table weighed down
with plates bursting with
steaming pasta and
bowls of stark
white rice stuff
that will make me
sick with happiness and
shining like Buddha,
because food is nothing
more than
refined sunlight.