i want actual things and inactual things. i want love and community and space to roam and the roaming of space. i want a white sheep. i want a big red barn. i want rabbits in a cage outside in the barn. i want cats running all over. i want some dogs and some fish and maybe some turtles or birds. i want a window that's over the kitchen sink and i want bird feeders and a bird bath just outside of it. i want to grow grapes up the side of the porch so that one side is just a wall of vine and bunches of sweet globular wetness. i want a deep purple metal roof on a brick farmhouse with trees blocking the view of the road. i want hydrangea bushes all along the flagstone path to the door. i want a red living room. bright red. i want a wood-burning stove. i want to make popcorn. i want dried herbs hanging in the kitchen. i want art on my walls and art on my mind and art all over my hands. i want rows and rows of floor-to-ceiling bookshelves loaded down with books. i want to bake bread. i want my own washer and dryer. i want a claw foot bathtub on black-and-white ceramic tiles. i want to paint stars on my ceilings. i want to have little girls who wear fairy costumes at halloween and not at halloween. i want foot massages. i want blankets draped over the backs of overstuffed chairs. i want fresh flowers and organic fresh ground coffee. i want to grow vegetables and herbs. i want lots of chickens. polish hens especially. no roosters. i want to be happy and to meditate on the nature of things and see everything as it is. i want truth. i want the world to get better. i want the war to end. i want to go to italy. i want to go to florence to see david at the uffizi. i want to go back to new orleans and stay in a bed and breakfast. i want to write everyday. i want to work on things that are meaningful to me and that make me feel as though i am accomplishing something in this life. i want to learn how to throw pottery. i want to draw better. i want to make short films. i want to write short stories. i want the new yorker to publish my fucking poem about julian schnabel. i would like to meet j.d. salinger. but i don't know what i'd say to him.

No comments: