I’m going to build a catalogue of sensations. The sound of flags flapping. The feeling of a knife blade sinking into a cherry pie. Images developing in a darkroom. The sound of a car starting on a cold morning in March. I’m going to hang from a yardarm and cook the shadow of a catastrophe. I’m going to skulk around in a drugstore and punish the innocent with my looks of explosive disgruntlement. I’m going to exemplify a pinch of salt and sit down and cry over my name and age. I’m going to initiate a rogue conception and assassinate a fountain and cackle and luxuriate. I’m going to immerse myself in stucco and comb my hair and paint an ophthalmologist irritated by superstition. I’m going to splash blood on the walls and greet the dawn with fire. I’m going to take my time. I’m going to suck a hectic frequency. I’m going to fuel a truck and drive to Louisiana doing a cool 90 mph and hum a Bob Dylan song. I’m going to slam the door when I get there and mourn the loss of my innocence. I’m going to thicken my outlook and impersonate a mirror. I’m going to follow the sun and open a door and throw moonbeams at a seductive comma. I’m going to inhabit a present tense and sing of the past. I’m going to hire a poet to reach for the stars and pay her with kisses and lost horizons. I’m going to construct a bubble that surges forward in blossoms and a bubble that swoops and a bubble that clatters like a broken ladder. I’m going to arrange a series of hoes and deliver them to a spinning elixir. I’m going to call the president and demand a refund. I’m going to sparkle like a postulate and gargle a book cover. I’m going to wipe the computer screen with a rag of skeptical embroidery. I’m going to carve a pumpkin and spit pumpkin seeds and wander around the room in a primordial mailbox. I’m going to play Hamlet in an inoculated octave. I’m going to sculpt a pronoun out of marble and make a parameter elude its electrons. I’m going to sip a charming light. I’m going to spill some secrets. I’m going to study emptiness. I’m going to moisten my lips and hold a word until it describes something real and radical and crystal. I’m going to start it all now. As soon as the accordion is squeezed and the spices are served and the wheels and gears begin to turn. These are my plans. My plans for the future. It is all mapped out. I just need to begin. Begin doing it. Begin the beguine. The stucco and studs. The bridge and pontoon. The grand scheme of my life. Which is everywhere stirring. Which is latent as the afterlife. And crammed as an afternoon.
John Olson is the author of numerous books of poetry and (chiefly) prose poetry,
including Dada Budapest, Larynx Galaxy, and Backscatter: New And Selected Poems. He is also the author of four novels, including In Advance of the Broken Justy, The Seeing Machine, The Nothing That Is, and Souls Of Wind.