The bubbling bits, the melted crayons,
the wads of cellophane,
the loogie hocked up,
accidentally,
on the face of a loved one.  
the picture booth refrain.
The K mart moment, the screaming kid--
your kid (your screams) your blue light special in aisle
number nine, #9, no. IX.
The bar code ritual,
the magazines, the chamber, the Better Homes
and Gardens, the tomato worm majesty and sci-fi reality;
the 45 that skips, that skips,
that skips
the rubber cement execution.
The antiques, the answering machine genius,
the message,
the quit.
The key that would never fit
(even though it was really the right one after all.)
The said and done, the leftovers, the flat screen TV,
the belly in effigy, the remote,
the space in between
her ears and her heart.  
The cards, the paper cuts,
the canopy of foil on an ancient afternoon.
The bar room, the bare room, the broom swept
corner of the attic.  
The memories, the empty frame,
the carousel stare into the light.
the left behind,
the clouds in the sink,
the feeling you get
when you let
the microwave
be
a weapon.

I want to be the me that I wanted to be when I was a kid who dreamed of being the me that I’ll be when I turn 70
I want to be a race car, a ******* rush; I want to be a daredevil on both
I want to be a tight-rope circus act, and tread daily on loose strings with firm feet and handstands
I want to be a shaman with normal senses, instead of a normal person with shamanistic pretenses
I want to look what I saw, I want to listen what I heard, I want to speak what I said with absolute, immaculate, immovable conviction
I want to be like Jim Morrison, and sail to the moon on a crystal ship
I want to be 25% pessimistic, 25% optimistic, 50% opportunistic surrealist
I want to be an Anti-Christ neutral anarchist, and go on a nihilistic bowling spree
I want to be like Jeff Lebowski
I want to be an unintentionally over-achieving burnout who’s proud of his very human frailties
I want to be my own version of Salvador Dali’s first drafts, Allen Ginsberg’s papers and Jack Kerouac’s path
I want to write serenades about melted ice-cream, burnt sausages…and similar tragedies
I want to be a comedic prophet with bad timing; I want to laugh at a funeral-my own funeral
I want to be a suicide note; an obituary that says, ‘**** Condolences! I’m dead. Now, just let me be’
And although, I’m not half the things I said I wanted to be,
I’m an ancient nutshell with reinforced-concrete casing and recent cracks that show the me that I am right now,
I’m an educated, at most times mostly illiterate kind of bloke
I’m a six feet tall hormonal speck of snowflake on snow
I’m a growing ukulele, dreaming of bursting out an improvised, deafening, soul scathing Electric guitar solo, on an amp that goes up to 11!
I’m a short-tempered, soft-spoken, heavy-breathing embodiment of all I’ve wanted to be and the things I’ll never be
But right now, I am the me, that I want to be
And all the other ‘me’s would be proud if they could see me.