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costumed devil in the details

by Gabriel Ricard

Two drinks at three in the afternoon
makes you an alcoholic, and everyone dumb enough
to keep buying cigarettes has to find a place to hide
in the backyard.

I once had a spot where it was possible
to watch the city build another airport down the street.

It all went wrong when I stayed in town a few hours
longer than the mystic on Mojo Street had recommended.

So that means it’s my fault. I shouldn’t have read so much
back in high school, definitely shouldn’t have fallen in love
and almost assuredly should have trusted my memories
over my dreams.

No question that I’ve missed my chance to be
in some of those old New York photographs.

The city hasn’t been the same since 1937.
The background ain’t what she used to be.

I’d be great as the guy just getting out of dodge
and not realizing until years later that someone
I needed to talk to was watching me from the third story
of their crowded apartment just shy of the mouth of hell.

Of course
fiction being the science that it is
we’re talking about a woman who knew exactly
what it is to explain the impossible to the exhausted
very, very carefully.

Go through the rest of the pictures.
You’ll find the same haircut, the same kind of dress
and the same look of a person wanting to die
or at least pass out from impatience.

I’m fairly certain she’s not a vampire or ghost.
I’m completely certain this is in no way romantic.

We just happened to be friends for a couple of nights,
and for some reason that still charms
the hell out of me.

I’ve never been very popular. It’s not every day I meet someone
who can talk me off the Christmas tree cross and keep me
interesting in drinking coffee at four in the morning.

More than that I wanted to know
why she wanted to share with me at all.

I never got to figure it out. That never stops bugging me.

She seemed to know a lot more than she was comfortable with.

I’d like to carry some of that brilliance around for a while.
Damn the consequences since I’m about as tired of being
stupid as a constant visitor can be.

There’s other ways to be so miserable
that your therapist moves to Detroit and gets a sex change operation.

I swear to God I’m ready for them.

09/08/2010

Posted on 09/08/2010
Copyright © 2024 Gabriel Ricard

Member Comments on this Poem
Posted by Charlie Morgan on 09/08/10 at 03:36 PM

...ahhh the details...or is it de-tails the devil is that a subject/verb thingee...cool write, bubba.

Posted by A. Paige White on 09/08/10 at 03:56 PM

Gabe, you speak to me on a level that makes O's of my I's... I guess it's all in the details. Freaks me out more than a little, but I'll never tell why. Love this!

Posted by Stephan Anstey on 09/08/10 at 06:19 PM

I like a lot of this.

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