The last I saw Richard was in Detroit '68 and he told
me, "All romantics meet the
same fate someday: cynical
and drunk and boring someone
in some dark cafe." "You
laugh," he said, "you think
you're immune, well go look
into your eyes they're full
of moons, you like roses and
kisses and pretty men to tell
you all those pretty lies,
pretty lies, when you gonna realize they're all just
pretty lies, only pretty lies?" Put a quarter in the
Wurlitzer and he pushed three
buttons and the thing began
to whir and the barmaid came
by in fishnet stockings and a
bowtie and said, "Drink up now, its getting on time to
close." "Richard you haven't
really changed," I
said, "just now that you're
romanticizing some kind of
pain that's in your head,
you've got tombstones in your
eyes but the songs you picked
to dream on, listen, they
speak of a love so sweet.
Love so sweet, when you gonna
get yourself back up on your
feet? Oh love can be so sweet, love so sweet."
Richard got married to a
figure skater and her bought
her a dishwasher and a coffee
percolator, and now he drinks
alone most nights with the TV
on and all the house lights
off, crying. "I'm gonna blow
this damn candle out, I don't
want nobody coming over to my table I got nothing to talk
to anybody about" All good
dreamers end this way,
staring down bottles in dark
cafes, dark cafes, only a
phase before I get my
gorgeous wings and fly away,
only a phase, these dark cafe days.
