Failure has gotten a bad name,
hanging out in all the wrong places,
joining gangs of hoodlums, wearing
leather. Failure doesn't know how
to improve his image, even when
we'd all love to love him. I met
Falure last night playing jazz
in a seedy bar. I said to him,
"Failure, you've got a problem." Failure
said, "I don't have a problem, I am
a problem, my own worst enemy.
Everybody tells me, 'Get a coat and tie,
clean up your act. Even if you can't
be a success, act like one. 'Do you know
how much I hate all those successes
driving their fancy cars, going home
to wives and dogs, loving their children
because it makes everything go so
easily? No, I'm not about to get braces
on my teeth. I have no intention
of getting a shampoo and shave, let alone
shining my shoes. Failure is its own
reward, it gets you out of the game.
Now I can play my trumpet like nothing
else in the world mattered. I can search
for the perfect note in the void, having
eliminated all superfluous sounds." Yes,
I left Failure leaning up against the bar
with a smile on his face, and I felt
ashamed of myself. I still wanted success,
to be like everybody else, though I knew now
the true price that must be paid.
Selected Poems:
http://www.pbase.com/wwp/poems2
