I’ll admit that I’ve screwed around with the notion of being a star, someone that I’m not. I am a little too much of an expressionism to be captured so easily by a headshot and a portfolio. And so, I write. Thinking used to be my favorite pastime, when others were daydreaming and fantasizing. Now, I reckon that some one or ones will demand that I repent my inversions of axiom, my bastardizations of Cartesian theory. They’ll spit Latin at me, id est they shall quibble the points of logic undergirding my presumptions of predicate tenses.
But I’ll be too busy writing, blowing rocket smoke and what steam it’ll take for my star to rise. For every farewell to the conventions of renown I make, I know I am forging an original of my oeuvre: the last more of celebration or distaste remains.
I was therefore I am: me, thinking of what I will be.
I’m not going anywhere until I earn a reputation. Or, if by the beat of my pen I can afford my black clove cigarillos again, we can sip at the plumes in a Greenwich café.
I am a dilettante of shifting and various proclivities, 25, living in the Californian desert. Each dream bleeds into the next, a process that subdues my poetry to a constant psychoautobiographical metaphor. The only constants have been free verse, a gently squawking violin, and hyperbolically hued imagery.
I live for validation, aspirations of fame, Warholianism, and, recently, my self. Oh, and faulted honesty. As such, I would love to correspond with [you], for we've found each other, haven't we?