Sometimes I feel like the quirky roommate,
In somebody else’s summer blockbuster,
You know, the one with a strange room,
Strange clothes, strange hair on his or her body,
But always the bringer of sound advice
To get the plot rolling and the lead outside
And into the air so they can start looking around
For chicks, jobs, and enlightenment,
Mostly chicks though, but in strange new places,
I may or may not be given a subplot,
One that involves the neighbor’s pets or a trip
To visit the grave of a long lost father
Or a long lost ever living poet with a weak estate,
If I can get that, somewhere down the line,
Under the rising action of the stars,
Then I can be content with this next-door lot,
There are worse characters one might flesh out,
I guess I could be a hooker with a heart of gold,
But that would require years of prostitution,
I can’t fathom what fetish I could satisfy,
And a whisky priest only seems fun
For a year or two, until you start living under
The volcano of open ulcers in your stomach,
If I’m I a plucky sidekick, the patron saint
Of some screenwriter’s idea of eclectic,
Then I want negotiations to commence:
I am to be in nothing advertised heavily,
Or bloated with directorial dreams, or a budget
That puts impoverished nations to shame
Instead of us and our demanding studio system,
It must be a sleeper hit, slowly building up
Receipts per movie screen until it is declared
The number one film of the season,
A surprise to everyone involved but me,
Putting an end to critical speculations,
All talk of the romantic comedy being dead.
~ Ben Nardolilli: Arlington, Virginia | The Brooklyner
