STOP BREATHING

i want to live life deliberately, feel as i were awake at all times,
take a piss and think about the toilet pipes

the sewer gators under the man-hole covers in the street chomping on underground cable lines;

think of the poisoned rats and their waxy skins rotting into the surface of a sewage sea.

i want to think of food but not just the meal itself, appreciate my mother's rough and bloody hands chopping at meat and bone and the tears which roll down her blush peppered cheeks which perfectly match her skin-tone

(they come from an onion she chopped
which is boiling in water
on the stove)

and the gas which fuels that, i want to know where its beginning is at, and if and whose soul-less casket it might have passed;

i want to read a novel about Jacques Derrida's son and the type of typewriter he typed on,

and play my guitar knowing what the temperature was the first day it was played on;

if i could i would walk barefoot on a beach and retreat into thoughts of Spring on a mountain in New England which the sand i walk on was once apart of;

animals that scurry off away from headlights in forests along familiar highways on drives home for the holidays,

dragonflies which splatter gone unnoticed in a tunnel colliding with a passing subway,

the dew which slides off petals of a dandelion flower as a stranger passes by in a hurried walk

are all things that i typically miss.


i want to live deliberately,

i want to wake up and smell the coffee.