Finally, I Want Something
that will do for me
more than little blind Sartre
ever did for Beauvoir’s good eyes,
than Gertrude’s bucks ever did for Alice,
than the left behind coffee bean
ever did for its fellow beans and beanettes
as they plunged through the grinder.
After so much wanting to want
finally I want—fucker that I am—
what I really want to want,
something more robust than yesterday,
closer than tomorrow,
more palpable than sleep,
less exahusting than the screaming
zero at the heart of inner-city
yogis vacationing in the Aleutians,
something memory won’t mind,
Aunt Dar Dar won’t attack,
something I can sink what’s left
of my teeth into without harming
anyone I know too well too much.
Stranger wants there have been.
You name them. I’m too tired.
This pounding want, this always something
this promise to self
and others—goddam them—
forever having to have to be to want,
to put up or shut up.