i figure i'll end in tragedy.

i'll move to new york city, find a studio
for $1500, write poems during the day,
go to concerts at night,

song write for seven bands destined
to go nowhere, date six girls
who's future will end up nowhere,
get wasted on five different illegal
somethings, country hop to France,
Italy, Denmark, England, meet everyone,
know everyone, have all their
numbers in my three phones,
come home from the clubs two in the
morning, release a book of poetry
hoping it'll be a number one best-seller,

mess with the stars, get
in tabloids, get on tv, get in music
videos, cameos in movies, voice-overs
for commercials, going to book
readings and signing autographs.

i'll be in five car accidents and one
terrifying plane crash that i'll walk
away from. sued twice and sue someone
once. get married, divorced, married,
divorced, married, married, divorced,
divorced (those secret marriages never
work) and try to deny one of three
kids as mine.

i haven't decided how i'll die, but it'll
bring countries to it's knees, worse
than Princess Di, sadder than John Lennon,
and tears will flow, raise sea levels, it'll
be awful and sad, "such a shame!" they'll
all say, "so young, the genius!" but i'll still
be praised, hailed, studied and emulated for years;

my books will be in every girl's
bookshelf, my phrases will be on the
tip of every guy's tongue
trying to pick up girls, i'll be on every
mother's black list tagging with the
naysayers debunking my work, for

naught; i'll have been a legend by then.
i'll be it all. i'll leave the scene
being this super hero, a super star, a
mega everything-you're-not with limits
being fiction for me and reports that
i'm still alive living on years after.

my biopic will be the hit at Sundance
and i'll be clinking champagne with
Elvis and Tupac on a island Rand-McNally
happened to forget to map.