Published in Everyone's a fucking poet! 1995
I need another hand and twelve more hours in the day. For all the time I've given away to strangers and the white shirts and ties I've refused to wear -- and I've grown, I know, I've grown by days and weeks and memories I could make movies from -- for all the recordings I've banished from my turntable because just two notes can bring back sixteen months of lost romance, I have the respect of privates for their generals, the loyalty of universals in the constant disobedience of the singular. I need more sleep and less information. I carry a library card and a pillbox full of caffeine and I dream in full motion, in the middle of conversations with best friends who only want some attention and an answer to the question that defines the destination of a car ride they took because they needed to drive -- anywhere -- and the traffic lights stop cars but the mind keeps moving. All the thoughts I've juggled ended up on the floor, where the dogs chew on them and cats bat at them with curious paws and lose interest as they roll under the sofa. I'll find them again when it's time to clean house. And dust them off and try to remember where they came from and how I can weave them back into the fabric of everyday life. I've given up on domestic affairs and clean sheets, atomic clocks and things that go bump in the night. Time is dirty and silent and home is where you shut down your brain. All the missing pieces from the puzzle of the last fifteen minutes come flying back at me like Chinese throwing stars -- I had a book of knowledge as thick as a phone book and my lapses in thought cut straight through, and the loopholes of my emotion lassoed the pieces and yanked them out of reach. There's broken glass on the street where a work of genius should have been. I need another lifetime to write my biography so that someone gets the story straight and then another lifetime after that to deny the whole thing. A faster car and a shorter distance between things I want to do and things I've done. I could use a good dictionary to speak in fewer long words instead of lots of little words that are hard to follow. And could I speak to Dr. Seuss, who made rhyme so subversive that no one noticed and corporate television forgot to censor it? I need a job that pays me in overtime and free access to international newsfeeds. Friends that shake me up and down, sing me to sleep and scream at me to wash the dishes. Third arms get amputated and half-days just beg for more time.
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