Home

she can't take much more of this, captain (w/ meghan helmich)

by Gabriel Ricard

When I get up at three in the morning,
the hall to the bathroom is a symphony of glass
bottles.

Someone is having the time of their life
around here, because the music is downright
obnoxious by six.

I shut the window ten times before bed
but someone keeps leaving it open,
and in the morning, the apartment is covered
in sweat.

If I had roommates I'd call them
sons of bitches and to clean up
while they blackout.

The fresh-faced dogs and cats
tearing up the downstairs bathroom
need to get jobs,
or they need to just get the hell out.

I work for a living,
and I can outrun anyone
from the werewolf-show down south.

I deserve better
than to have to pick up my cigarettes from off the floor,
and write thank-you notes to so many bedside physicians.

But I also deserve brutality from everyone else's
God for the things I've been thinking of doing
to the neighbors.

Those poor bastards don't know who's living next door.

I'm no good to anyone when I can't wake up
from the dreams where I keep falling in love
with a well-dressed gangster holding a tommy gun
in one hand and a glass of bourbon in the other.

Then again
too much useless money is put down
on being good to people,
who can't stand the sight of you,
after seven sweetheart boilermakers
have run roughshod.

Even the worst of us
is good to someone eventually.

And I can always depend on an epitaph
that shoots from the hip
or a kiss like a grenade, all pins in one closed fist
and blowing off limbs in the other.

I keep finding telegrams in the mail telling me,
"Pace is the trick." But it's hard enough for me to remember
to keep breathing.

Those telegrams could be coming
from anywhere though. Most of my youth
was spent being too exhausted to do anything but write,
so maybe I took a chance on hoping
I'd be willing to listen to myself in my old age.

Remembering anything as far back
as fifteen minutes ago is becoming
more hazardous than a room full of sober ex-girlfriends.

Talking to the birds who come in
through the hole in my ceiling is easier
than getting up to start the day all over again.

Now that I think about it,
someone should really tell the landlord about these holes.
I'm running out of cereal bowls
to catch the sky when it falls
every day just after lunch.

Then it's only minutes before the clouds get ugly
on the sides of the road.

10/13/2011

Author's Note: written with the fantastic, effortlessly brilliant meghan helmich. i decided against indicating who wrote what this time.

Posted on 10/13/2011
Copyright © 2024 Gabriel Ricard

Member Comments on this Poem
Posted by Sal Haefling on 10/13/11 at 08:40 PM

Almost like a song, I loved it. It really evokes crazy thoughts in my head and I like it!

Return to the Previous Page
 

pathetic.org Version 7.3.2 May 2004 Terms and Conditions of Use 0 member(s) and 2 visitor(s) online
All works Copyright © 2024 their respective authors. Page Generated In 0 Second(s)