when you're awake (you're still asleep)

i want to live deliberate, as if awake at all times; take a piss and think about sewer gators chomping on phone lines, the poisoned rats dead on the surface of the waves – and view it as sublime. i want to think of food but not the meal itself, rather her rough and bloody hands which chop at meat and bone, carrots and potatoes, and the gas which fuels our stove. i’d like to think about where it comes up from, somewhere deep down in the ground, passing millions of soul-less caskets, up past 6 feet and makes its way to the third floor. and then the beautiful thought of the swine i just dined on (from what pasture did he come from?)

i want to read a novel about Jacques Derrida's son, and then think of the machines that printed it.

i want to play my guitar and think about the wire strings and the wind which blew a few leaves off of the tree which was chopped down and made into a guitar. i’d like to walk barefoot on a beach and retreat into the thought that the sand is eroded pieces of a mountain in Spain and think about the hills and curves and dragonflies which die in a splatter on a windshield.

there is so much i am missing – the animals i cannot see far off scurrying about in a distant tree – the air that i breathe. i want to live life deliberate, to think about where things came from and what things mean to me, and you, and i want to think about what i don't want to think about and know the things i don't want to know. i will start to pay attention to the details, the dew on the petals of a dandelion flower that blows in the wind while I pass by, without notice, when all images become a blur.



i want to wake up and smell the coffee