i have an idea of my dream life.
i can’t wait
until i have a high rise apartment in the ungentrified parts of a sparkling city,
late night salons in the form of the french will be held every night,
champagne will be on endless tap—
poetry will be discussed.
i will be broke
in the sense of worldly currency,
living the life of an artist that the crowds aren’t quite ready for,
sliding deeper into my safe world of words
alongside my artists of different mediums,
the walls will be covered with handprints in every form.
the place will be cold
heat and electricity are decadent luxuries,
mattresses will be stained and secondhand,
let’s romanticize the trash of any other man.
but the investments will be in
the way that ideas flow seamlessly from one mind to the next,
the life that does not have to make any excuses for itself,
the company that i keep.
and love will prevail
in the empathy of art
in the compassion of stories
in the shared passions of artists.