I don't want to talk about neglect or abandonment or lies.
I want to follow the road into a grassy heaven.
I want cigarettes and whiskey on the covered deck.
I’d like that.
I want soft rugs under my feet and his legs between mine.
I want the big black dog to be my pillow
and the red one to be my foot warmer.
I want my cat back.
I want smoke and coffee and rum with eggnog.
I want gifts to open
and to be sexy with purple hair
and black shit around my eyes.
I want a closet full of black.
I like black.
I want to laugh when he trips and at funerals
and when people leave.
I want lanterns in the dark
and candles that burn in the wind.
I want days living in twilight
and moonless walks where I can't see my feet.
I want to count through tunnels
and pockets full of decadents
and ride bicycles in the air.
I want to collect lines
and save them for a rainy day.
I'd like that.
I don't want to resent my father anymore.
I don't want to think about why he left
while I was still in diapers.
Then again when I danced in spandex.
I want to move from the ghetto of my mind
to the place where rainbows finger the gulch
where gods sit in the trees
where lovers cough up maple syrup.
I want to inhale my mothers perfume
right from the bush and lay in my lovers arms
while scanning the complicated sky
whispering to each other of living in the cradle
of the tall pine tree.
I like trees.
I don't want to hate myself anymore
or put myself down
or cry over spilled discrepancies.
I want to sing in the car with the windows rolled down.
And I can't sing.
I want to dance naked in the rain.
And look good doing it.
I want eat pasta, drink pink champagne
and fuck myself raw.
I'd like that too.