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fuzzy quantum leaps

by Gabriel Ricard

No one gets to be heroic tonight.

We will not escape from this sixth floor hallway
with our lives,
and we will not wake up tomorrow
with our pictures
in those silly Sunday papers.

Don’t tell me the truth,
because I don’t even want to know
about those videos going out like machine-gun bullets
who think they’re starving children.

Going out across what I still like
to refer to as the airwaves.

I pretend to be old-fashioned,
because it’s easier than admitting I’m stupid.

We’re not going to get through this hallway alive,
but I trust you,
love you like a brother, and never, ever had designs
on your violent sister,
so I’m going to let you drive this baggage cart.

Hand me the dynamite. While you’re at it
pass the bourbon, and that little bag of flour.

This isn’t going to be pretty,
but it’s going to make a lot of people angry,
and at least someone is going to call hotel security
a few hours too late.

We’ll be long, long,
gone, gone, goodbye, goodbye,
don’t write, don’t cry all over Shockoe Bottom,
Argentina, Rosalita or Mistress Adams.

I don’t know her real name anymore.
I don’t remember a lot of things I’d like to see again,
and that’s why it’s the same town, the same brawls
and the same five losers who think hotdog vendors
should have a mini-bar and sympathy for the devil’s cousin.

I remember his name. It’s Bob Moore. We got him drunk on herbal tea,
and then sold him three condoms for sixty-five dollars.

Good thing he’s the black sheep of the family.
I’ve got enough problems,
enough conversations with people
who actually had dinner on Friday night.
Without having to worry about one more aggravated genius
hounding for the ruin to spread me out
across the hands of fifty of the worried faithful.

No one wants to hear about that. Sorry.
The damage is done. Sorry. The party hats are worth
more than the sleepy heads sleeping under them. Apologies.

I told you we weren’t going to make it down this hallway alive.

Pick yourself up,
and grab what’s left of the flour.

Let’s go outside. I hear new music and loud exchanges
two rooms down,
and I would rather be outside.

11/09/2011

Posted on 11/09/2011
Copyright © 2024 Gabriel Ricard

Member Comments on this Poem
Posted by Meghan Helmich on 11/10/11 at 01:11 AM

This reminds me of that Dane Cook line...What all men want more than sex...to be part of a heist. I guess it's the dynamite and bourbon that drew me to that conclusion. Nice write!

Posted by George Hoerner on 11/10/11 at 01:39 PM

"I pretend to be old-fashioned, because it’s easier than admitting I’m stupid." It does make one a little upset when you have to ask 6 year old how to do something on a cell phone or PC! I loved it Gabe.

Posted by Morgan D Hafele on 11/10/11 at 08:38 PM

i'd certainly rather be outside as well. as always, excellent write man.

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