I'd Like To Go

I’d like to go to the Montrose neighborhood in Houston and dip my middle finger in the fountain outside the Rothko Chapel because I’m curious of its temperature. 

Let’s go to a Pacers game and hear the inharmonic harmonic yell of thousands. We’ll skip the Bud Light that’s ten dollars, who needs it.

I’d like to run down a hill on the central California coast. Some dry poppies’ll scratch against my heels just a little too much on a day that’s just a little too hot but I’m close to the Pacific so it’s not—then start a campfire with brothers and sisters with different last names. I want to reek of bonfire so much it bothers the diner waitress we tip 40%. 

I’d like to go where I’ve not yet been. Not just transplanted to a different place, flung five hundred miles per hour along a jet-stream—I want to be in places I’ve yet to be. What are those versions of me? Those versions that can only flower in the throes of a new scene? 

What’s the coast of Virginia like on the first day of fall? What’s Montreal like on the last day of winter? What’s the best restaurant in Charleston? Where’s the best bar in Reno? Who’s the nicest mom in Mexico City? What’s the secret to crab in Maryland? It might just be Old Bay seasoning which I get at the grocery.