no i don’t need a new used car! i read my colicy daughters to sleep at night with shelly by the light of the dragging muffler’s sparks. the failing brakes make life worth living, and when i come home, bruised bloody and beaten again this week, the wretched arias of the clutch are the spikes between my tires and the bottle. i need bad credit, higher gas bills, poor prime-time tv offerings and radio stations that make my ears bleed. because if i don’t start reading i’ll never get my ged, and if i don’t stop buying refrigerators i’ll join you in the coranary unit, and if i don’t stop cooking prostitutes on my new gas range... well, the police might notice they have fewer to choose from. i don’t need to let the elderly and disabled share my seat, an invisible hands free cell phone or viagra. if i was that much of a shamelessly self-important whore, endlessly masking my own insufficiency, lost in a labyrtinth of smoke and mirrors, believing the world’s blindness is my vindication, and thus i am no longer prisoner to myself- i would only know life chained to the man across the aisle, as a new personal, more omnipotent god, a most grotesque sort of asphyxiation. i need real breasts, weatherbeaten, industrial cleaning solvent stained skin as soft as sandpaper. sex must be failing flowers, picking beautiful mexican pop bottle wrappers from the cracks of an abandoned parking lot, an abrasive, bloody, sore of an orgasm in a shopping cart crashing into the abbandonded k-mart. on our own damn hands and bloody fucking knees. i need a maiden with mossy pubic hair and an angelic complexion. she must be an artist in every sense of the word, the darling of no bollywood. i need deadlocks, mohawks, afros, crew cuts, buzz cuts, insane parts, knee length beards- ass hair, male pattern baldness, moustaches, mutton chops, comb overs, unwashed rainbow hair, thinning gray hair and armpit hair. i need you to see how long you can go without shaving your legs. can you do that for me? dispense with head phones. don’t hide your beats away, be a muse! be amusing! i need open food containers, and your aromatic representation of a dakar market will suit me just fine. i want to lust madly after what i cannot have, because it is yours and sharing is not caring and you have embraced property rights! congratulations! welcome to america! have a degree in intellectual property law! you know who that market belongs to, and i am not monsanto or adm. i will bleed, inevitably, on muddy, chewing gum covered rubber floors. and i and want to land there! after talking shit about skinheads, and feeling my biceps, and looking hard, POP! you didn’t know manatees had hymens. your discovery, like my fall, an inexorable consequence of your humanity. realize– the legalization of bestiality is just as futile as the illegalization of racism. the courthouse clock will continue to turn, the stables will remain locked. i don’t need curvy plastic seats or something to hold onto– but i need rusty screws! desperately! i will put them in fly’s wings and lions paws and my eyes, and tango with impetuous, prepubescent, danish fariy tale fall girls in shell's foier. then i will get scoliosis and ring the cathedral bells and fuck the gypsies and star in a wholly unremarkable cartoon feature film drawn by 20th century bohemians, driven to despair and self destruction by the writers; structuralist, english major, establishment, single, advertising exec types. i don’t need pin-hole covered adverts on my window, or to pull the cord when i want to get off and i’m not waiting on or for the green light. i’m homer1 trapped inside the forecastle no more.all the blood and glass shards and common sense and maturity in the world won’t keep me from kicking my way out, because yourenotpassingmystopbyagainonpurposetoday mister. i don’t mind if your baby cries, i do mind if your laptop bag keeps hitting me. every time a baby cries, i know there are at least two less virgins to worry about, they don’t become number enamored technocrats, circuit board prison guards. cigarette? no thank you, i’ll smoke your newspaper and $200 shoes. there are those who object to this behavior of course, substance abuse, destruction of the soul- the human spirit- they call it, but is their rightoues self-deprivation no less opiating, and these are the same who argue i devalue malaysian child slaves by destroying their life's work; the readymades they crank out by the 18 hour day. would i like it if someone burned my photographs? they ask. of course not i mumble back ashamedly, and it is at that point i subconsciously begin demanding rights from the leviathan. i need a hat with a race car driver on it, not 3 more flat screens, in my life. don’t blame your sins on dick trickle, your commute kills just as many penguins as him, and his sales tax dollars are doing more to create ethanol fuel anyways (if thats how you swing). you just can’t come to terms with the sad fact that cars going fast in ovals have more passion in their inanimate lives than you, that rednecks get laid more. i don’t need horns, blocked driveways, or pompous decelerations of the bleeding obvious. "stupid ass". louder. vulgarer. they wont let you be until you earn a xxx rating. i need family food, vietnamese food, seafood and also those old lottery tickets of yours. on a second thought, i’ll take my chances on the creations of the waterhead with the unsightly neck bumb and two grocery bags (riding again thursday). who got killed in his apartment by loneliness and i don’t know it yet, fittingly. here i cue the string quartet to play the works of deaf men. and you should know a meter never made a damn difference, if it does than losing will do you a favor. on the same token, so will killing those who castigate. oops. to hell with security cameras and no tolerance to fair evasion or boomboxes. like i said, i need ellington and brahms. at full volume please. a soundtrack to fair gate jumping loud enough to shatter all the convex mirrors. bring speakers and amps and phonographs and tap dancers. bring your first love eating a pickle loaf sandwich. bring stories about your family and neighbors. bring pictures of your last permanent vacation. bring acrid smells and a dish to pass, it can be a bowl of vegan lime jello with peas if you like : ) i need shadows and transformers and telephone wires with birds. just for pure beauty, ironic puns of sorts and faunal folk science. i needn’t worry about falling asleep or how late the bus is; especially if it’s raining; unless i have to pee. i need a change of scene you see, but like it or not nasal first impressions count to the blind. i need to get past third on the bus, and to redefine the base system in terms of british imperialists favourite sport to take the premium off of sex. or else burn my bra. or massacre some darkies. i need late night burnt out street lights conducive to knife fights. im not up to anything, in fact(,) i have an acute sense of what might be termed, if it were the moral high ground i were after, decency. trees, discolor and cast down your leaves. yes, onto the street and sidewalk and everyone’s lawn. you can dispense with your emotions this time of year, no one will notice. you won’t need them till the birds come home, and if we learned anything from the carrier pigeon, don’t count on it. no lap dogs and seeing eye mutts aren’t needed either. because we are all poets at heart, angelic, beautiful and waiting to soar unto the sky to dance in one another's loving arms. don’t count riding as your good deed, steal a northern renaissance master’s work and stencil it up. the art museum is nothing more than an art supply shop at heart; last time i checked god was dead, and on account of his clairvoyance, left us all out of his will. i need to play i spy, woody guthrie, and hooky. i need metro-goldwyn-mayer the lion’s roar and i sure as hell don’t need this headache, nausea or sore eyes- but tv will do that to ya- while making it soothing and sweet, a lullaby for the soul, to end all its beautiful, kaliedascopic dreams. all i need is a covered page. which of course begs a page. and a cover. all of this can easily be provided for, but at what cost? is the greatest poetry written at all? i need stars and daffodils and fawns- all in short supply here. we need to get out, or else bring nature here, sew hemlocks in school rooms and flood the subway where chinese river dolphins will float amongst dead stock brokers, crisp bags and advertisements for cheap carribean vacations. i will not buy your $3 pie. i need it heart shaped and home baked. i do not need pi or integers > dx/dy (me + you). neon lights can have character, but only after your shop has been robbed twice. don’t discount the robbers character either, though i haven’t a clue which side of the counter he is on, some would say he who counts higher. i need mandrin as much as spanish, as much as english, as much as c++. why not build a nation where spray paint is the official language? or one where children converse on the street with makeshift footballs? i mean, if fifa would allow it of course... i don’t need stop lights or cross walks, and the proof of being alive is you can tell when to cross on your own, and what tells you is a beautiful girl waking up across the ocean. i need cars that are exhausted and lie rusting behind the shop. i need kudzu to sprout from under the hood, clutching the frame, like mother to dying child, and reaching over the fence with no regard for what the other side holds. i don’t need a chopper, i need a bike and no fear cutting you off, calling you names, driving up on the grass, through your bbq and over the american rag (a poor transposition of the maple leaf version). when will they learn the tatters beget respect, and the chicks dig 'em? i don’t need a new satellite dish, or an old one or an apallo or soyuz. save the rickety old hubble! the delinquent of science, creating beauty, descending into disorder. i want a rocket ship! i want antoine saint- expurey to read me a bedtimestory. after i eat a sweet potato cooked by ralph ellison. i want to go swimming with margret thatcher in the Avon and give her a guevera shirt and run down the m40 naked, screaming ‘no more state funerals for brain dead ex-presidents’. but i should probably rip out all the cameras first, or else get a penis enlargement. i need to see my breath. if i can see my breath then i don’t need a graphing calculator. seen breath is one possible manifestation of unseeable, likely illusory, quantities prevalent in new age spiritualism said a learned baccalaureate friend, who probably thinks of me as a new age spiritualist; hence our friendship. no worries, if youre not comfortable as a commodity. adjust yourself quickly or risk being swept away with the dodos and savages of yore who have square dances played by orcehstras of romantic composers, who find that the bards are loathe to dance- save basho- and if they want a good time afterwords it's the enlightened despots who ought be courted. perhaps oneday i will pay them a visit. i need rexroth to chronicle my love life. whitman can have the rest. no offense allen, but i don’t want to interrupt your pedestry, hopefully you will agree? check: yes__ no__ maybe__ the only signs without slashes in them should be lying on the ground, in multiple pieces if possible, pointing the way to prostitution and inhalants, triping the aristocratic evening dog walkers and ripping fur off their poodles. i need anguish, i need exuberance, i need despondency, rage, heart broken starving artists turning to pixie stix (that includes strippers, for tax purposes). i don’t need ennui, but i desperately desire voter apathy. the only pen less mighty than the sword is the one that marks the ballot, or doesn’t meet a pirate. i need my hygienist to see the beauty of viking teeth engraving. or maybe it dosent count if done by a professional with sterile instruments. in that case, bring me a sharp, glowing iron, and i’ll do it myself. you cant execute a man with such beautiful teeth, any more than if he were elderly, retarded or innocent. so mind your women and livestock, i plan on setting them free with my great hulking sword! i need blood, sweat, fur, urine, motor oil and asbestos. with all of these i will have written the great novel of modern america, which will be published, and the critics will praise my style and imagination, but wonder what it is about, and the hollywood producers will quote anonymous and say that writing is for failed talkers. after clairification on the big screen all will go home nodding; at work congratulating the special effects and cinemetography. i need big puddles and to dive beneath the anti-freeze rainbow storm drain in transparent wet suits. i need to scrape my knees on the asphalt and find the rainbow fish i know lurks within the belly of the beast. i will kiss and admire its scales before i must slowly, unwillingly ascend, back to the sidewalk, back to the street, back to getting kicked in the jaw. i need these faceless, souless wrecks marching by, sitting behind me, staring blankly forward to grow their own rainbow scales with me, and we will escape down the storm drain in front of the used car dealership, to the hymns of the vfw marching band. i need fire and ice imagery fit for interprative dance by dada ballerinas, i need oedipus to come home to a home improvement show. beowulf, you will stay home. i will marry the old man and the sea, having together amphibious fisherman gnome children who will teach responsible fishing practices to the 3rd world. unless they rip modern industry limb for limb though, they will not survive long enough to grow five legs. i need to ride this bus forever, transversing the industriegebiet lovingly photographed by the ansel adams of today; and the endless neon glucose all-in-one mart's; readymade tradgedy for matthew brady's last grandson. never once will i succumb to dodging behind headphones or a book or the local news played to an ill at ease captive audience, burning forever under the flourescent illuminated milky way. | 
