I want to go sit somewhere up high
and smoke a cigarette,
the quiet relief of being the first person
to exist outside of space & time.
I want to become old
without being outwardly considered to be
old, or eccentric.
I want to go laugh alone on a tall hill
or in a low valley,
and relish the obvious fact
that I am the funniest person alive.
I want to go lie on a roof
above a buzzing city;
a position in which it wouldn’t be too presumptive
to festoon me with CRIME SCENE DO NOT CROSS.
There, on my back, I will stare
at the stars,
until their image is cigarette-burned
or indelibly magic-markered
onto the insides of my