I’ll freely admit that this poem is a bit on the underside of cooked.
It started out of an afternoon of staring at the walls and wondering what to do with myself. Then, I asked myself the title as a question, and things started to go from there. At first, I thought this one might be done, but I feel like it’s probably going to warrant an addition of some kind.
At any rate, here’s a poem in progress.
what do i want? a typewriter full of fine machinery & words, mechanically precise & lyrically ambiguous - satisfying staccato click & bourbon ink; to remember my dreams past waking, a notebook breathing memories, robust midnight calling cards & mysterious half-remembered names; a chair that will show me all the world, perched among clouds & clear sky - although i fear heights, think of the view!