Freelance suits and ties

If I were to create a little safe place where nothing made sense, and stayed that way (for my own sake), I think I'd name it a cross between Italy and Prague, with a French twist..like the kinds I can't get my hair to stay in. Something that'd be mispronounced too often to be considered plain, like Alia de Montague (such a pretty word to be sick of nowadays). And if I were lucky (or self-absorbed) enough, perhaps I'd name the capital one of the many names I'd imagined myself to be called. I'd stay there, and I'd write about all the things that I never could find in a name, or a fleeting moment, or the makeup those superficial bimbos put on themselves to look a little bit like the enchantress in that gay bar. Then again, I'd much rather not. I'd much rather stay there and feel like the fortieth man on the moon -ignored by old school book authors, but still somewhere closer to Home, watching the Earth fly by.

Maybe there..here..wherever the thin line between there and here is, I'd let loose the tiny coffee beans and ice cream dreams in this restless little do-nothing head of mine; because, then, everything would feel like nothing but a hideaway under a silk-lined blanket on another rainy night..and not roots and radicals and who knows (I don't) what else.