A Litany of Wants
I want to erase my name from this poem so I can write what I want to write.
I want the two badass Brazilian guys in line to line up like erect oil slicks and pull down their jockstraps and not say a word, ever.
I want to be the girl in the black slip dress they’re looking at through their jockstraps.
I want to be on the cold, hard flatbed of their badass pickup truck.
I want to wear her gargoyle face mask and gorgeous bloody lipstick to Publix and imagine I’m a star even though I’m being powered by morons.
I want my knuckles bussed by Octavio Campos as I’m dressed and undressed by handmaidens in my best rendition of a Target dress.
I want them all to tell me that it will be alright (it will be alright) even though I know there are no wrongs.
I want the Baker to bake me a day.
I want to be a girly-gay grizzly bear.
I want to bring Brandon back to life.
I want to wear my best lil’ bo peep braided hair to my funreal procession.
I want to be blindfolded when I’m cremated in my raggediest Raggedy Ann dress.
I want to reconstruct his ashes and make him sacrosanct.
I want to cry, but it’s my birthday.
I want to receive his response to my (s)ext.
I don’t want to want Eddie or any man whose name starts with a letter in the known alphabets.
I don’t want to be compared to a woman during Women’s History Month by a man who says that I’m better than pussy during sex during Women’s History Month.
(I wanted to write pussy without blackout.)
I want to encase my iPhone in cement.
I want to have infamous sex in a tree.
I want to stand on top of his (I forgot his name) bed (again) and not see the (used) pink condom on the floor from the man who came before me.
I want to avoid cesium.
I want to bend iron bars like Superman can.
I want to hug the quantum mechanic who cannot be destroyed by man or Superman.
I want to fly out of or into the stratosphere and into the tricked-out arms of Batman and Robin.
I want to have Marlon Brando eyes.
I want what happens beneath the sequined skirts of insane hummingbirds.
I want tea.
I want to radiate language.
I want to haunt Boy George.
I want to sleep with my puppy.
I want too much out of my television.
I want to assassinate these unholy manuscripts.
I want to make love to Siouxsie Sioux’s banshee.
I want to dance for chickens.
I want to unplug the yellow caged bird and converse with Krakens.
I want to know if you’re still reading this and, if you are, please contact me at your earliest convenience via text message or sonar.
I want the man who saves the world from kids to Bar-B-Q baby back ribs and chicken wings for me in my backyard even though I’m a vegetarian.
I want to be proud of my (pink) children just like my mother is proud of her (blue) children.
I want to swallow fireflies and flapjacks.
I want what happens in the end to end in red.
–Neil de la Flor