this is what it feels like in fall, and also how to say it better than i can:

by derek c. brown:

Aren’t you sick of being appraised wholesale?
Aren’t you sick of sailing on listing ships?
Aren’t you weary from playing cellos with ex-lover’s bones?
I want the butterfly brigade to grant me a year with no stomach problems.
I want to affix the word un-blame in the dictionary
so I can screw up your spell check
and so I can call him without shaking.
I want a piano that will not warp outdoors
when the rain demands slow dancing.
I want to know how to sashay on a Saturday
with a mouth full of sa-tay… with Latter day Saints.
I want to skew the difference between Tai Chi and Chai tea, and end up drinking a tall glass of graceful force.
I want to lick my hands after I touch someone that has just become
razzle dazzled.
I want birds to come close enough to hear them speak Aviation Spanish.
I want your record collection in my throat,
and my thumb in the electric ass of the all night jukebox.
I want my shoulder blades mounted in the museum of knives.
I want church in a bar. I want to pass out and hear you say Amen.
I want a skeleton night light in the closet.
I want your wow in my now so we become NWOW.
I want the light in your attic to shine down to where the sidewalk ends.
I want free shit to not cost anything.
I want you to feel like a disco ball of fish hooks
so you can hang on my words and I can spin in your small miracles of light.
I want my kitchen to be a Brazilian dance floor
with a pot of your sweat in the oven
and a fridge stocked with butt lust.
I want new sheets.
I want your silver muscles cut into a quilt. Let me sleep under your strength.
I want more pony lamps.
I want to sing this into all tail pipes until I’m exhausted.
I want to smell everything.
I want to remember that the sky is so gorgeously large, I feel stranded beneath it.
When I gasp,
I only want to gasp for more