I want to feel the warm taste in my throat when I drink of the sunlight that splashes on my car and seeps into my pores and pollinates my corneas, making them dilate to the rhythm of summer heat and hope and white, cracked sidewalks mirrored with sprinkler ponds and brightly colored towel bridges where we lie down like human dominos; you can be two and I will be six.
I want to run into the oblivion of an orange burning sun and fill with the air of a hurricane that would send me into a waterfall from the sky that became a rainstorm on the surface of a day that was terrible, but would not let me cry.
I want to tangle these limbs into the roots of my feet that are buried in the libraries of regret and use the branches to break down the forests of people around me that keep me from seeing the sky and climbing to the top of some virtuous oak that promises deeper truths than all the years that made all the circles, the endless circles, that live in this core, that incriminate the heaping mortality of this broken tree stump.
I wants to construct something immense and unchangeable that will revolutionize the dulling incompatibility of my routines and the vastness of possibilities that resides in the palm of my suffocated immeasurable volumes of capabilities.
I wants to abandon syntax and context in exchange for an implication of comprehension without the necessary rites and responsibilities that are glued from the bottom of my feet to the top of my mouth squishing all of the tiny momentum of a five foot frame into a five by seven album exegising me into a perfect square and run-on sentence and six sleepless nights and one empty glass and three vacant seats and a four-person table for a three-course meal with a one-sided conversation about a monosyllabic scrabble game that exists in the form of mini trinities and in six or more words has to stop.