Sleep was last week’s luxury.
Two-day naps became easier
than corrupting nineteen-year-old children of God
with a smile and the musical styling’s of car keys.

Easier than performing exploratory surgery
instead of eating breakfast.

He didn’t want to write,
discover pancake recipes in The Bible,
audition to be a funeral home comedian,
or find out if she might draw blood,
the next time they kissed like young junkies.

All those things have been known to save lives,
but he had been running down, over and into
a little too much good luck lately,
and it was starting to make him nervous.

He stayed in all week,
and hoped no one would call on him.

They didn’t,
and it just made him feel worse,
because no one wants to be proven right
about that kind of thing.

People want an Irish wake
guaranteed to last an enthusiastic lifetime,
without any of that messy dying business
to contend with.

He mostly hung around the living room,
and only wanted to call the people
whose numbers he didn’t have.

When he wasn’t sleeping
he chose to indulge
all kinds of bad personal decisions.
Like adding a gentle kick to the throat to his tea,
and watching old episodes of Star Trek
until he could hear the theme song in his dreams.

The streets wanted him back though,
or rather he just got tired of being laughed at
by his creepy mailman,
and hearing rats learn how to dance in the attic.

He went out on a Monday night,
and realized he had missed the sound
of a house exploding,
in hopes of finally being appreciated.
Followed by an hour-long storm
of fake diamonds raining down from the sky.

All great comedy hurts like hell,
and the end of the world is actually
whatever you were doing,
the last time you were really happy.

He missed holding someone close
in an abandoned car.
and watching old movies
in the apartment across the way.

Wild men and brooding women
who at least had the decency to act
as though he had never left.

The writing would follow.
Baby steps in shoes made of barbwire,
and there might even be an acting gig later on.

He doesn’t want to be an unreasonable success.
He doesn’t to cut and paste his picture
into sixth grade history textbooks.

He just wants to surprise himself,
and then move on to working that magic
on the rest of the crowd.

11/04/2011

Posted on 11/04/2011
Copyright © 2024 Gabriel Ricard