“Things I Want That Are Crazy”
I want to be an object:
A muse with striking posture
And a perfect profile.
Perched high beyond responsibility
Or implied ‘no.’
And everyone I sense below
Is lit with silver envy
Which is far more permeating than green, you know.
I think it’s something in the vibrations.
I want to be a novelty item:
One you discuss with your acquaintances
Over sugarless black tea
Bright, shiny, almost scintillating.
And when the gentleman to your left asks
What does that word mean?
But I don’t even know her middle name.
I think it starts with a ‘T.’
I want to be a rumination:
A back and forth
A thank you, not now
But how to break the loop
On a weathered, well-worn pathway
I’ve been traversing since I learned to think . . .
. . . About the few pauses in between.
A respite that only comes from being vertical
And is nowhere to be found before falling asleep.
A brain executes thoughts like a heart executes beats.
I think there’s something to be said for perfunctory functionality.
I want to be a source of mania:
No sleeping, no eating, no whistling.
When every crevice has been dusted
And every freckle inspected-
Sitting down only for the pleasure
Of standing up again.
Pacing the disinfected floors
In a body that’s oftentimes yours
But could belong to someone else at any second
And it better measure up as far
As your curiosity set the bar.
I think being told to slow down is pejorative.
I want to be calculated vulnerability:
Wisps of premeditated humanity
Well-versed and carefully rehearsed
And absolutely safe.
Where they think that the only thing you do
In the bathroom is wash your hands.
I think I recognize this soap.
I want to be a best-kept secret:
Freed from the prying eye of perception,
Even if you embarrass me in public.
Without you as a reflection on me
Nor I on you
It will be a seamless transition to
Winning the game
And showing off my new haircut
When I turn my back on the credit that was given
Before it was due.
I think I want things that are crazy.