i want to be the inventor of your dreams.

there's a volcano on my chest
and i've just watched it erupt.
silently it takes its victims
from a clean, bright room
at the forefront of consciousness
and drives them away
into the palms of the living
into the palms of those who
learned how to speak correctly,
to those who do not need
an anthem when they want to form words.

i want life to be as thick as my glasses and
to taste like the coldness of
lemon melting into sour cream.
i want to write down with my
eyes everything in the pockets of
the legs of a cold, real city.
Humans were born that way.
with the capacity.
and when there are blue eyes
set against my own, i want
to hear them sparkle.
i want something more than
feeling, something more than
what is arbitrary.
i want the thought of palm
trees and thick novels without
the anxiety of the sensation.
I want to write a poem.
i want to write a poem with my life.
i want to become everyone in my life.
i want to stick my plastic
orange fingers into my ears
and become a soup.
the most beautiful images are the
ones that are settled in the backs
of our minds like a vanishing memory.
Everything in the world should
be covered in little squares.