I’d like to carry a typewriter,
one that folds up in a suitcase
with a handle,
and sit smoking on a train
breathing inspiration through the windows,
puffing genius madly.
I’d like to work in a laundromat by day
and pocket extra quarters
for bottles of brandy
sucked back in moldy apartments
where my habit has its play.
I’d like to be firmly trodden down,
to have something to rail against,
to pray that the click and the clack of my fury
would be the sound of justice
in a deaf world’s ears.
I’d like to be alone when I die.
I’d like them to print that in the papers.
I’d like all the women who’ve tried to love me
to come forward to tell how much pain I was in,
like a blind man who hasn’t got time to be healed
who ironically sees so much.
I’d like to…
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