The dream

This is not the life I wanted; this is not the way I would choose. Trapped by money and finances, things like this and that. Waking up in the morning, dreading the day. The minutes seem like hours and the hours seem like days. Yea I'm good at what I do, but I don’t really love it. I don’t wake up in the morning ready to charge forward in my day. I always knew what I wanted to do, and being a developer / computer geek was not it. When I was a kid, I used to watch him. He was happy and wild, not a care in the world. He knew how to fit into any situation, and everybody liked him, well except for my mom. I wanted to be someone like him. 31 I guess you could call me a success, but that song by the talking heads keeps coming to my mind.

This is not my beautiful house,

This is not my beautiful life,

This is not my beautiful car.

Through apathy, fear and taking the easy path I stand where I am.

My dreams are simple now.

Forged by success, tempered by life, I know now what I really want to do.

“I wana live in a Mexican whore house”

That’s it that’s my dream; I wanna live in a Mexican whorehouse.

How those words just roll of your tongue, licking your inner wounds like a drunken chiwawa.

I wannna change my name to Jack and have everyone call me Boston.

I wannna have a scar across my face to match the one that’s inside.

I wanna sit in the back of that Mexican whorehouse and look mean and cool, like, like, well like all those guys in the campy action movies that look mean and cool.

I don’t want to live in a ritzy Mexican whorehouse; I wanna live in a real shack. Where the walls are discarded plank boards. The toilet is a bucket in the corner. The winds squeezes through at night and the sun shines thought like blades piercing the weather bleached lumber, dancing off of the broken bar mirror.

I wanna live in a Mexican whorehouse, where asking for a date involves 5$ and a few simple hand gestures.

I wannna live in a Mexican whorehouse, where there’s no deadlines, no goals, just clean natural living.

I wanna really explore the complex intricacies, of my shinny new heroin addiction.

To personally know what it feels like to be strung out, passed out, living in a Mexican whorehouse.

Yea it’s not a glorious dream, like becoming a writer, or a singer, or a dancer, or a poet. It’s my dream though.

Someday, I tell myself, some day. I've never been to Mexico, actually I've never been outside of the USA, someday though I'm gonna shuck this nasty habit called a career, and responsibility, I'm going to take on the honest addiction of heroin.

So if you ever find yourself in a Mexican whorehouse, look in the back of the room, if you see someone there looking mean and somber, say hi, but call him Boston.