My American dream is relatively easy. Like the rest of America who worries about making rent this month–next year’s rise of it, tattered old clothes, shoes with holes and Christmas presents to buy with a dwindling bank account on Black Friday. It’s a piece of paper. The purchase of a Powerball ticket expands my mind, helps me smile, it lights my brain’s canvass with foreign travel, warm heat throughout the apartment–no freezing in the kitchen concerned about our bills; takes me on constant stays abroad: Dublin, Amsterdam, Frankfurt, Galway et al.; pays the family debt and helps me save for my posterity’s posterity. My easy American dream. And then on Saturday night my numbers aren’t drawn–very close, yes, about five off, you can relate. And I take it down a peg again and think 30-40 years then retirement, toilsome broken hands now and student debt payments. Also, poets make no money unless their publication has excellent grant writers, fund raising events, and more friends with deeper pockets. And they better like your stuff and agree too, or you with them; write about justice, identity, and politics, fuck flowers, fauna, and the outside–these things you may see. No one cares about that shit or muse lottery tickets. Vice grips for positive thought. My American dream is easy, just waking up to it tho. My American dream is a hope and a piece of paper. Or I must get out of this bed and make something happen for myself.
Powerball: my American dream