I had, have, hate, the hope of becoming a writer to reckoned against,

Or at the very least someone memorable enough to tell jokes about during the brit mailah of the Paperboys Milkmans grandson.

Or- just another person to not fail underneath an uncaring sky

And never changing sun.

I mean,

I am the epithet, when it comes to suburban white boy- King Of literally any dog breed that can fit in a handbag (except for chihuahuas- because racism) 

And when I think of something about me to be thoughtful, meaningful even,

It slaps me in the face right there that;

I am just another white boy.

Just a plain-clothed fair-skinned cog that must fit perfectly in a machine- 

That's fueled by jealous wives and spray tanned millionaires,

Belligerent karens at roller derbys and ice skating rinks in the summer.

And worst of all- garden clubs and freaking A’s.

I, most likely speaking, will never get that fairy tale life, 

Never the city bustling, club filled, polluted, and realistically disgusting nights.

Because,

I will not make the leaderboards of the greats. frankly, half way through this and Strindberg is already choking on his coffee cakes at the hilarity of at the least beating Hemingway down a spot or two,

And all the while hemingway is poking at Kafka telling him to yell down from writer h*ll “go white boy go”.

And whaddaya know, this is all I can give them.

Blank pages and meaningless comparisons, and yes I know-

Melodrama so dramatic I'm giving Shakespeare and Arthur miller a run for their drastically underwhelming summer nights and salesmen funerals.

Now look I have seen it all,

And had my entirely unfair and proportionality massive amount of disappointment in life

(frankly everyone thinks that line though)

I say i’ve seen it all 

because my mom grew up in west dallas (the worst of the cardinals when it comes Dallas)

worked to become an english and ESL Teacher with a history degree.

And my dad grows up in nowhere to flunk out of aerospace to get an english and kinesology degree

To become P.E. teacher.

Oh and they both work in Irving.

So even this white boy knows a thing or two about quinceaneras or what bin is for recycling   

And which one is for stashing the beer.

But I digress 

I am still a loser-dreamer, wishing for a chance to even figure out the wish was in the first place.

Where we live in cities too packed,

Country sides too barren,

Or god awful suburbia too white washed and pressure cleaned so whippet walkers or corgi parades

Can live in “peace and civility”  

Right up until you say you voted blue.

We are still stuck.

I am still stuck.

And this “dream” or “hope”

Will just be stifled with the echo of-

“Go, white boy, go”.