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the legendary mark prime
by Gabriel RicardI used to sit in the back of the car
and drink up all his beer,
while he drove seventy-five through bad traffic
in order to make the show on time.
Jesus God on a thundering crutch,
did I have a serious fucking hate going on
for almost every goddamn song he played
in order to get into that right frame of mind.
He drank like a cartoon fish at funerals
and broke a number of hearts by refusing
to even stand in the back of a room packed
with wailing hymns and doomsday pledge drives
and make sarcastic remarks for four straight hours.
I just think it’s a miracle
without a benefactor that we didn’t crash
and spend eternity haunting those losers
who trade in six hours for three miles
and then act surprised when they don’t
get memories back with interest later on.
I guess I just have to hand it to him. He really did love
what he barely got paid to do.
He never won a single match. He never got more
than twenty bucks. He didn’t even really get
the best medical treatment when that old woman
stabbed him in the throat after a tag team match
at the old high school under the abandoned
subway station on Good Morning Boulevard.
This is all pretty simple.
He lived, worked about ten years at the bottom,
drank too much and died because his landlord
liked to get high and put shotgun holes in the ceiling.
Truth is I really didn’t like him all that much.
Truth is we just didn’t know how
to tell the other to piss off. When we got older
he started wrestling on the weekends
and invited me to come and watch.
His favorite venue was this bar
where the midgets banged strippers
right there on the table and bondage crosses
frequently gave out under the weight of a very serious
dedication to redemption.
Quite frankly
he wasn’t much of a talent. But every Friday and Saturday
I’d sit in the back, watch the young girls lie to businessmen,
talk to retired cops about mutual acquaintances and tell my buddy
after every card that he was nothing less
than Ricky Steamboat in 1989.
The whole show was usually a disaster,
but you could still get into it one way or another.
You couldn’t help but admire him for trying.
It was like that with a lot of those guys.
06/22/2010 Posted on 06/22/2010
Copyright © 2024 Gabriel Ricard
| Member Comments on this Poem |
| Posted by Sarah Wolf on 06/22/10 at 07:32 PM Its been awhile since I've read one of your poems but your still one of my favs... :) |
| Posted by Charlie Morgan on 06/22/10 at 09:35 PM ...just another good gabe trip. ;-0 |
| Posted by A. Paige White on 06/23/10 at 01:20 AM Quite a description. Did you go to his funeral? Very realistically done. |
| Posted by Matthew Sharp on 06/23/10 at 04:54 AM drinking and backseat driving sounds like fun, almost as fun as drinking and driving:)
wow! so vivid gabriel, a wonderful story..
i loved every bit of it but the landlord putting shotgun holes in the ceiling sticks out to me the most because ive known people like that:)
youre a wonderful writer man...always have been. |
| Posted by Linda Fuller on 06/24/10 at 06:35 PM so good |
| Posted by Morgan D Hafele on 06/26/10 at 01:18 AM hell of story, and you have a hell of a way of telling them |
| Posted by Glenn Currier on 07/03/10 at 02:17 AM Your poem puts me in mind of a good earthy detective novelist trying to put together the jagged pieces of the puzzle, visiting and taking in the ambiance of the places he'd been. No romantic here, but one who does not distance himself or feel superior but partakes of this little piece of humanity. I like your style, Gabe. Thanks. |
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