Tonight I just wanna
drink sarsparilla, cut tomatoes and watch their seeds drool out, paint my toenails raspberry, eat four pieces of bacon, roll down a hill of grass, drink an olive-juicy cocktail, hang out with Maya Rudolph at a bowling alley, cram onto a single bed with all my college friends and yell stories over each others’ stories, finish that friendship bracelet I started, read Sartre, carve my own stamp design into rubber, make a dozen beeswax tapers, soak my feet in hot eucalyptus water, lie in a room covered in fresh mulch and ducklings, talk on a landline with a coiled cord, stay in a hotel with really soft robes, get a fancy haircut, race a friend on parallel moving sidewalks, watch “Prime” with my sissy, grill peaches, drink whiskey in the thunder, wrap gemstones in gold wire, type up poems on the street and sell them for a dollar, bake chocolate croissants with Meryl Streep, or whittle a piece of cedar into a breakfast spoon.
panache, perhaps 