Writing Through My Veins

I want to write.
I want the earth to revolve as
my pen crosses the page.
I want love and stupidity
to happen to someone else.
I want eleven minutes to sing
in the shower
or in a band,
at a cavernous coliseum
or a dark, dank nightclub
(one of those smoky spots
with an alley in the back).
I want horizontal stripes
that make me look thin--
or maybe invisible—and
I want to write.

I want to know how many men
hid on the grassy knoll
or cancelled my favorite TV shows.
I want to ride into the sunset.
I want to be that woman, you know,
the one all the men love and
all the women love to hate.
I want to be an international spy—
wear bikinis and wigs
and steal candy bar recipes
from over privileged nations
where mopeds and monarchs
make living easy and
I want to write.

I want to make love in a restaurant
where no one speaks my language
so I won’t be distracted by patrons
asking waiters to have what I’m having.
I want to wear white after Labor Day.
I want cable to be free.
I want the library to charge borrowers
to cover my late fees and
I want to write.

I want to write a poem
that will go gently into that good night and
rage against all I find wrong in my world and
I want to write.

I want to write a poem
that can only be analyzed when read
while eating an ice cream sundae
with caramel and butterscotch, but
I want to write.


I want to write
so the world can smell my words
and touch my thoughts
and know
that I know
that they know
all I ever wanted to do
was write.