What Do I Want?
Phread, 2007

I walked into the small café
and sat in my usual seat at the table,
the one by the front window.
I had my pens and paper out,
and I was ready to write…

All I needed was a cup of Joe,
my usual cup of mud,
my morning inspiration.
Then she walked over…

“Hi, Phread!” she said. “What do you want?”
“What do I want, Stella?” I asked.
“Yeah, Phread, what do you want?”
And seeing that it wasn’t too busy,
I decided to tell this fine figure
of a woman exactly what I want…

“What do I want, Stella?
I’ll tell you what I want!
I want to write, Stella…
I want to write books and poems
and short stories and plays…
I want to write the kind of stuff where,
before you begin reading any of it,
you’d be really wise to
strap yourself into your chair…

I want my stories to start with a bang,
with firing-off-the-line, hell-bent-for-leather
sentences that leave my readers breathless,
laughing and begging for more…

I want to write corset-tight prose, Stella…
I want to write all-too-real reality,
with characters I refuse to romanticize
or patronize…

They’ll live fast, drink hard,
and meander along the gray areas of the law…
They’ll endure hardships, pain and slights,
clutching their dreams, holding them tight,
even when all signs point to a nightmare ahead...

I want to write about tough guys
and tougher broads, Stella,
about thugs and rednecks and determined drunks,
who try to live where life has plunked them down…
And this mosh pit of fatalism and optimism
will be cut with a delicate balance of
violence, humor, and heart...

I want to write stories, Stella,
stories that are lean, and racy and vivid…
stories you can live in,
stories you can get lost in,
stories that hit you in your gut
and leave you gasping for air,
stories that pull you in and keep you there
and leave you wanting more…
much more…

I want to write books, Stella,
books that people will want to
rub all over themselves
while they’re naked, Stella,
because reading them just
isn’t enough…

That’s what I want, Stella!”
And the space between us
was filled with heavy breathing…

“Wow,” she said, wide-eyed,
“I never knew…”

“Yeah,” Stella, “I want to write…
But for now…
I want another mocha,
or maybe a latte this time…
You decide for me, Stella,
while I plot it all out…”
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