Poetry: Selections from Gabriel Ricard

Onwards to the Comic Book Store

 

At the bottom of the escalator,

you had a man in his late 60’s

in Sweet Home Chicago

kind of clothes,

and he was screaming something

about how this town belongs

to the youth of New York.

 

We were in New York,

so that was fair,

but everything else

about the guy was pretty confusing,

when you’re the kind of visitor

that other visitors point out

as someone who will probably

be a lot more fun to confound, rob,

and possibly murder.

 

He was too far away for me to talk to him.

It’s not like I knew what I might say.

It just seemed like the right thing to do.Well,

the right thing to not do,

and then talk about in a poem

thirteen years later

because that has to be better

than forgetting the man ever existed.

 

Or you just hand someone a couple of singles,

If you’re bold enough to carry cash

with casual consistency,

and let them get on with the rest of their day.

 

Or their longest possible weekend,

which even back then I knew

was entirely possible for someone

to go through on a fucking Tuesday.

 

I did neither of those things,

and I don’t know why that’s specifically

the one time I let a stranger down

that I’ve remembered

every couple of weeks since.

 

Well,

not the only one,

but I still think about it

way too goddamned much.

 

I also think about the police officer

I saw at the top of the escalator,

and how I made contact for some reason.

 

While I didn’t actually speak to him,

since I was three hours late

to be turned away at the hotel in New Jersey,

I think about the fact that I look at him at all

 

There is a strong argument to be made

that I didn’t know the first fucking thing

to do with or in New York City.

 

All things considered,

I guess I was lucky.

Everyone Is From Iowa

 

The eyes of that Christ statue are massive,

like a tribute to those Italian horror movies

that got you into drugs and geometry in the first place.

 

The eyes are huge, blasting two heavy,

noisy lasers that only cut through department stores,

families, and traffic caused by disenfranchised bookmobiles,

if you’re someone who believes in that kind of thing

to begin with.

 

If you don’t believe the statue is there,

then you’re probably the kind of heavyset cruiserweight

who believes the pizza delivery girl knows your name

because she really, really loves you.

 

She might,

and the statue might just be something

that escaped from a lousy monster

movie that three thousand people

have already made along three thousand

different main streets across North America.

 

All of these things might be true,

and it may even be so

that you are going to start at the job

of your dreams tomorrow.

 

They’ll invite you to coffee shops

where they seem to have everything,

absolutely everything,

except for coffee, tea, water,

or a first aid kit.

 

The Christ statue will be someone else’s problem

in some other part of the world

for at least a few more weeks. Long enough

for you to get your first paycheck,

spend it on your secretary’s 19-year-old son,

and leave town for the kind of place

where everyone is from Iowa,

and no one wants to let the Nazis win,

win, win, win, and win some more.

 

Honestly,

if you’re going to ignore the fact

that everything is fifty trips to the moon

from being anything close to just fine,

then you may as well treat yourself.

 

You’ve earned it.

Someone actually had the unrelenting goddamn gall

to tell you that you didn’t need three seats

on the subway train to the part of town

that’s just clean enough

to host an open mic that honestly appeals to you.

 

And then you couldn’t find your favorite shirt,

when you rolled up and off the bed

this morning.And now all this.

All of these things

that have no fucking business

occurring on what should be

your first hour of your first day

on the road to righteous redemption. 

 

You don’t deserve it,

and you shouldn’t have to subscribe

to someone else’s concept of reality.

 

Or several hundred thousand sharing

the same horrible vision 

of the way the world really is.

Summer Home in the Mountains

 

It goes like this,

and it’s gone like this before,

except the last time she was naked,

meaner than anything you could ever pay for

with god’s real money,

and holding that fucking birdcage,

she was babbling love poems

in an intentionally hilarious accent,

and with a language you didn’t even know

she could speak.

 

So you think about that.

You worry about the parts that are different.

You ask her to be patient with you.

 

Fall down. Fall down again.

Who the fuck builds stairs that go to someone else’s

summer home in the mountains?

 

And then you feel better.

You calm down a little bit.

 

God, she hasn’t even been here 

since the third summer from the left.

Brave New Bullies on Planet You?

 

Their pronouns are important,

but I understand you’re having a hard time

with all of it.

 

Everyone’s having a hard time with you, too.

 

Just the general notion of your specific face,

your specific voice with the words you specifically choose

because your mom specifically went out of her way

to raise you as quickly and poorly as possible. 

 

That’s all.

 

We’re all having a hard time with one thing or another.

 

But I’m worried it’s just going to keep frustrating you.

Pronouns. Constantly being made to know about pronouns,

or gender, or biology, or diversity in blockbuster entertainment,

or why no one cares that your grandmother was married for 47 years,

even though she spent more time with her “library friends”

than she ever did with your lackluster pop-pop.

 

How are you going to live? How are you even going to manage?

 

How can you even get up in the morning? 

 

Your dreams are getting specific. You’re wishing the TVs would come to life.

Every last flatscreen. Every last 4K UHD robot maniac from beyond the grave.

 

You’re wishing something would save you from all that wretched effort.

 

Arms you never knew existed. Exploding from the sides

of the inner workings of these TVs by the thousand. 

 

You wish they would just take you,

raise you to the best diner on the road to heaven,

bring you back down,

and jam your head into what may as well be theirs.

 

This is a fine thing to wish for,

if you’re never going to get the hang

of someone brown kid or old white woman

who doesn’t need your permission to be comfortable.

 

And if this isn’t something you’re wishing for,

it wouldn’t hurt to consider giving it a try.

 

You have a better chance of a sci-fi miracle 

coming to town,

than you do of setting things back

even half a breath more 

than they are already.

 

No one expects to be washed up at 27.

 

52? 

 

Oh. Oh, buddy.

 

Oh lord.

 

Get it the fuck together, friend.

Gabriel Ricard writes, edits, and occasionally acts. He is the author of several books of short fiction and poetry, including THE ODDITIES ON SATURDAY NIGHT, TONIGHT’S MAIN EVENT with Dan Wright, and the LUDICROUS SPLIT TRILOGY with Kevin Ridgeway. He is also the author of the novel BONDAGE NIGHT and is a monthly film columnist with both DRUNK MONKEYS and CULTURED VULTURES. He lives in Florida with his wife and four nightmare mode ferrets.