I dream of cutting my hair

and growing wings

or fins

I soar on the surf of hunger,

dive into the well of thirst,

thrive

on the repercussions of sexual love

”You will never create a masterpiece

by being polite!”,

I scream into the wind

I meet somebody face to face,

let some words of silver dance

like wayward thoughts on a ray of light;

get an erection

and dismiss my restrictive experience

I remember the name of a math teacher

who went to the flag pole on his remote farm,

hoisted the flag

and shot himself to kingdom come

with a shotgun,

to bereave the cancer of his death

I fantasize about mosquitos dancing

in the backlight

across the yard,

as I hide in the silence

between words

I'm ticklish when it's convenient,

but I don't go overboard with that

I pull ten minutes by the ears

until time begs for mercy

and pleads guilty

I see space swallow matter;

even art objects

I make use of jet engines

and false testimony,

smelling the vague scent

of times that ended

just before I arrived

I cut short, loosen up,

throw stones a stone's throw