I’m not expecting a kiss to save me.
It’s not that photographs of vintage love,
black-and-white heroics are going to reach out,
and slow my tin-can Cadillac heart with a breath of cool air.

I’m not going to write a song called
“Missing Out on the Happy Ending Blues.”

Don’t look for me to suddenly become
a teen heartthrob anytime soon.

Very few things, I believe,
are ever going to have the courage to get better,
but I would rather borrow candles from a cathedral
than wait for someone to finally set the bed on fire.

I’d rather practice screaming and crying at the same time
while the trains forget about me over and over again.
My frustration imagination telling me exactly what it would be like
to trade political contributions and kind words with all those great
dreams of mine that just won’t leave me to count my grey hairs in peace.

I’m going to fail in truly meaningful fashion.
And when I’m asked to leave,
or after I’m thrown out into the streets with a bag of bones
where my previously unharmed ribs used to be,
I’m going to be downright arrogant over the fact
that I at least tried to be happy.

Take mushrooms with strangers to put myself at the mercy
of whenever the sky decides to light itself up.

Search the boulevard for guys and girls who treat ideas
like being a lost soul with the best sarcastic contempt
you’re going to find for miles.

Some of them will be dressed
like little kids dressing like cowboys.

Others will look like those dark-haired writers
I loved in my youth.

Some will recognize me from the last time
I felt well enough to keep going.

The cast and crew of this unhealthy nightlife
ain’t gonna do me any favors,
but it’s sure going to beat the alternative to a fine pulp.

It’ll be better than being alone.

A lot of things,
I find,
are like that.

12/31/2012

Posted on 12/31/2012
Copyright © 2024 Gabriel Ricard