gimme gimme gimme

Give me a porcelain dog bone and I’ll break my teeth just looking at it
aggression is wasted on the young
I hope I’m this angry when I’m older
when I have a little more salt to me
now the best I can do is pour some letters into this machine
hope that I can push something out of me
more impressive than a healthy bowel movement
I realize I’m impressionable
delusional
I realize that I’m not as brilliant
as I ought to be
I realize that anger in general is as dangerous as
laziness
and I realize I am as lazy as I am angry.
So look out!

Give me a gun and I’ll use the butt to drive a nail into a wall, to hang it on
if only I could say this directly to you
I wouldn’t have to scratch for each syllable
I’d just have a conversation
but I don’t know where you are
I don’t know if you’re out there
I know that the most rewarding
mysterious occasions of my life
are when I let my guard down
and speak softly of fears
or ideas
floating masterpieces of thought
I carry around at all times
but consider to be too singular,
too personal to share
and I share them, thanks to booze,
thanks to the right stranger,
thanks to talking out loud,
thanks to frustration,
and you say, yes,
I know what you mean.

Give me a flower and I’ll wither with it in front of you
I’ll hitch hike even though
the days of hitch hiking are over, you keep reminding me
I’ll listen to the mariachi band on the F train
and watch them with out pretending like
they’re not making my commute more bearable
I’ll state openly that the way the world
operates is completely incorrect
that there is a better way to go
I’ll make it fully understood that
I don’t have a flying clue what that is

Give me a sandwich, I’m hungry for Christ sakes
there’s a feeling in my gut
all the time like I’m not doing what I’m supposed to
that we as a whole are off the mark
I’ve been to protest rallies
and they look just like what the rally is rallying against
there’s a big politician shouting slogans with a microphone
there’s a big crowd standing in formation shouting the slogans
back at the microphone
they march to city hall
they march to the UN
they march forming lines and columns and regiments and battalions
and units and
they demand peace.
NOW.

Give me a haircut, the hippies are selling me new cars
the time has come to create a culture
that operates outside of a computer
that lives and breathes that is misunderstood
misdirected, mistaken, mysterious
that performs plays on street corners
throwing quarters into the coffee cups
of passers by
that wears logos and no clothing
that gives themselves names like Lambisill and Lunesta
that goes to Darfur for spring break,
that creates a new economy by depositing poems, short stories,
and recipes for apple pie into the ATM.

Give me a dictionary I’ll rip pages out and line my shoes with them
give me an acre of land I’ll build a gas station there that pumps
chocolate milk
give me a horse, I’ll drive him around in a carriage
give me a president who can talk, I’ll write a poem about his wife
give me absurdity, I’ll show you a mirror
give me sanity as
I’ve never seen it