I still dream
of running away to Boston,
catching a muse like a cold and
living somewhere cramped. tiny.
peeling blue paint.

my muse would probably work someplace
with indecent fluorescent lights, like
Target. I'll find it while shopping
for popcorn and tampons, and we'll
live happily ever after inside
my old diary, sleeping on a bed of
blue ink and scribbled love notes.

if this isn't a morgue of half-baked hopes,
tell me what is.

I see your token aspirations and raise you
my dreamed up myths; bruised, pink and blue,
and waiting on a producer to turn me into a dozen
dollar industry. that's my proclamation,
make of it what you are.

I still dream
of running away to Boston,
catching a train like a cancer and
writing something famous. risque.
peeling paperback royalties.