what 'want' thinks 3/11/20

think, as observed, has long lines of order.

I don't want hose spray,

I want rain

as the windswept blethering water soak of meaning.

I want talk-say 

that got cursory approved.

I want outside the box, 

outside the box, 

to talk with me.

I want to hear the whispers of roots 

about soils and trees.

I want meaning 

that gets me to involuntarily hug.

I want an internal discovery 

of new turn-on switches.

I want captivation to invent me again.

I want 'want' to plead, to crave, to implore, 

even if to be the self of conjure, 

for whatever.

but get me the inferno out 

of this quicksand of order.

I feel like a one-dimensional limp in action.

I want from spry to grandiose, 

but without self-audience.

I want the spillage of laughter

and over-heated installments 

of burst-forth-love,

the streaming of collective thought 

forming amongst us,

the chrysalis of the unexpected 

forming from within.

give me immaculate 

as ever pending.

I want the titillation of the unknown 

breathing down my neck.

I want the after-burn of now 

before it ever thinks to blister.

I want experience to grow up

and stop being passively incessant 

and monotonously self-imposed.

I want to be a fish out of water 

and instantaneously grow wings.

I want flight without dimensional restraint.

I want gravity as an embrace 

and not as an impasse.

well, then again,

I want a think that sheds its own skin.

well maybe, just maybe,

'want', of itself, 

wants a mind of its very own.

and I am naively but whole-heartedly  

along for this ride . . .