by Gabriel Ricard
I’m pretty sure he still keeps
his Siamese twin around.
Bet he still wins less than half of the arguments.
Probably still pounding pavement,
cursing at street signs that were ripped down
after the photograph was taken in 1954,
and searching for love in the industrial ruins
of the country their religious grandfather built.
Years and years since I spoke to either one of them.
May as well be separated from upstate by an ocean.
The kind of endless scene where floating cities go to die.
And when I do travel,
I casually but unintentionally avoid
familiar, unsafe rehearsal spaces,
that man lighting the mailbox
at the corner of Bay and Wallace on fire,
and all the men who are still carrying
the young hope behind her gaze in their guts.
Good thing I’ve never missed a romantic step.
Thank someone somewhere that I’ve never been
been able to relate to those sad fuckers
on a personal level.
If I ever find myself back in one of those old homes,
and I black out from time to time to time to time,
so it’s possible,
I wouldn’t even know what we could talk about.
Even back then,
we were trying to make sure the new ventures
forward would later reveal themselves to be
the bittersweet we can relive anytime we want.
Because fuck you.
We totally could.
Our conversations would not be self-conscious
of the fact that the music has changed.
We wouldn’t mourn the ones
who have a prior engagement,
putting their kids to bed for the next forty years.
We’ll just pretend the new mayor
is just as corrupt and handsome as the last one,
and we probably won’t even be that far off
in thinking that.
Maybe, I guess,
it wouldn’t be so bad to see some of them again.
But between dreaming of bigger glass and concrete
cures for depression, skies only black and white misfits
could truly love,
and all the coldblooded lovers and fighters
looking for me around here,
I don’t think it’s gonna happen anytime soon.
Posted on 07/01/2013
Copyright © 2022 Gabriel Ricard