Saturday, August 03, 2013



He wants not to be so bitter at the world all the time

He wants to know that he is clean

He wants to stop working such exorbitant hours every semester

Wants to read a book a week

He wants to get his shit together

He wants a pair of shoes that doesn’t have holes in them

Until he remembers the famed photograph of

Jonathan Larson holding up his pair of sodden

Converse sneakers limp by the top heel

As if the holy spirit

In ornithological dove form

Had just been shot dead with a pellet gun


He wants not to drink so much on the weekend


He wants to fuck her brains out

He wants the canvas of the screen to be the

Sunrise he looks into first thing in the afternoon

When he rises (because he works third shift

And sleeps on a futon he found near the dumpster)

He wants security

He wants to finish the book he started eight years ago

He wants to be able to pay off his debts

He wants to go down to his father’s grave

And tuck his chin into his neck

As his face falls into a

Triangle of wet prisms


He wants to really be there for his mother



But more than anything else

he wants to wake up one morning

In the hard frost of early February

And find her body asleep

Next to his body

Her chin and lips

Exhaling invisible ripples

Paddling across the dashboard of his chest


He wants to take a moment

And just look at the way

Her forehead and her cheekbones

Form a gentle meadow of peace


The warmth of her body

 The serene pasture of her eyelids


The amen of the prayer that is to come.

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