I want to write about galaxies and sound interesting
or artsy or avant-garde
or whatever it is that people want these days.
I don’t mean to sound cynical,
but how many people in their early twenties
truly relate to roman phrasing and cocaine abuse?
I wonder how much of what I write in my lifetime
will be written to get me laid or paid—
how much of it will be real?
Truthfully, I’m too scared to ever do a line
or write one that’s honest. But I’ll try:
I’m going to die an insurance salesman in a town I hate.
No one wants to read that.
So I’ll spell out misery
in every way I can,
pray to Aphrodite for tits and love
sing to the stars in lingerie
and be interesting.