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we got the joint surrounded

by Gabriel Ricard

We must have somehow gotten into the habit
of going backwards.

Confusion reigned supreme for cheap.
It was cold enough to freeze the spare tire. Cold enough
to freeze whiskey,
or the hands I didn’t want to keep in my pockets.

We stayed up to watch the moon change size and shape,
and to wonder where that goddamn mariachi music
in the distance was coming from.

I didn’t make a move.
I was still trying to pry my blue necktie
away from my throat. I wanted the real nickels
to be treated with the same reverence as the tinfoil ones.

You were wasting smokes,
and you were assassinating whatever thoughts
a person dances with when the cherry gets too close
to the skin.

The ground had its own plans for the weather.
I really do think every step we could have taken
away from each other was made of fire.

That’s why we stuck it out for one more evening of being quiet.
So that we could have birthday parties in our minds
to celebrate what we finally did to each other.

Your idea of courage
is to have something that’s even more obsessive
than thoughts of sorting everything out,
taking home the dominatrix working the Blue Bells, Blue Moon Diner.

Buy a motorcycle,
refuse to learn a thing about how to ride it,
and only take it out for a spin
when you know I’m trolling the political side of town
for the next Dorothy Parker.

I don’t think it’s a coincidence that this ride out west
coincided with a striptease major and rain dance minor.
Or that the night before you poked holes through the roof of the car,
only on the passenger side,
and asked around for when and where
we could find hurricane season.

I hate that we can still kiss
and rip out clumps of each other’s hair like teenagers.
I don’t mind that I’m going left,
and you’re going to wander off to the right.

It’s just that I think we should figure out
if that dilapidated town hall is the same one
you took a picture of, in the town
that’s supposed to be behind us.

We need to know if we really are going backwards,
if we’re stupid or crazy,
and I don’t expect you to be any help at all.

01/24/2012

Posted on 01/24/2012
Copyright © 2024 Gabriel Ricard

Member Comments on this Poem
Posted by A. Reed on 01/26/12 at 11:48 PM

One day you will ask yourself enough questions and the answer will unfold like dirty laundry. Well done.

Posted by Chris Sorrenti on 01/28/12 at 03:39 AM

Cold enough to freeze whiskey?! That's pretty dang cold!

Posted by Laura Doom on 01/28/12 at 11:20 AM

The problem with going backwards is the eventual fast-forward that throws you directly into hell -- not that it won't happen anyway. Fortunately this one knocked me sideways...

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