boiling point

my dad always says
that when I latch onto my newest idea
everything else goes out the window

and i pour myself into this one, all consuming thing
until it is accomplished.

he says its my blessing and my curse.

so what I want to know is
where do I get these ideas, anyway?

just one of those days.
one of those spells.
one of those souls.

that wakes up needing tibetan prayer flags
red wood forests
central park in snow.

i want to snuggle down in the swiss philosophy house
and talk brave and get my hands messy and kick up my heels.
i want to be a muckraker and dish it all out.

but instead i sigh and suffocate
under a pile of boxes and numbers and grids.

my vision will not stale in parentheses.
it begs a little room to swell.