Gabriel Ricard

The Bad News Bears Go To Hell

The children lined up by the thousands,
for the feast in question.
It was some kind of goddamn spectacle!
Ugly, yes.
But there was still a point to it,
a lesson that had to be written down.
What that is,
I'm not sure anymore.
I was just the reporter invited to the gross scene,
where the scenery was mutated, peculiar.
Strange enough to wrap your hands around it
and forget why you showed up in the first place.
When you wonder how you wound up in a cab,
looking out the window and nursing a dozen bruises.
All I can remember are the elderly, the idiots,
The definite fact that there's a lot less of them now.
And blood.
I remember that as well.
How it was suddenly impossible to ignore,
when it became the topic of a thousand sharp
conversations.
Oh! Almost(!)forgot!
I remember barely making it out of there alive.
"Not yet, just not yet, man."
They went on about that for awhile.
In between the closed fist deliberation
about whether or not I had a right to be there
in any sort of capacity.
Which hurt my feelings a lot.
In the end,
they decided to let me go,
pad of paper, pen, and all the rest.
"Why not?" They said.
"He'll have to come back eventually."
God bless those little angels,
they make an awfully good point.

Gonzo Poetry


Four a.m.
and I'm still under this idea!
The goddamn uglier of the thousand,
the one prayed for by red
and blue laughers and screamers
and other old-school nonsense.
Most of us would trade up
for a better pair of eyes by now.
By midnight,
most of us would've put knocking aside
and just cut the motherfucker down with an axe.
Not me.
Nothing to do with the superduperego,
I simply forgot the alternative.
Well, that's not entirely true.
I lost the alternative.
Laid it to rest in flames,
gave it to an ugly charity,
mixed it into some American coffee,
I can't really remember right now.
What I do know is how it makes more
sense to stop only when my knuckles
decide to discontinue keeping up with the speed
of the unoriginal trying to knock over it's evil twin.
After they crack themselves into a wheezy sleep.
And yes, I know you can only ride
the deranged highway traffic for so long,
but where else can I make believe at nineteen?
How else can the legendary madness take
in an infinitely healthier-than-thou profit?
Sad but true, brother.
Sad but true.
But, hey, let's pretend that I do have a choice,
an opportunity to settle the sword for free parking,
give up the thin and red for the thick and pink,
If I did all that and more or (not) less,
where could I shuffle off the whiskey and blame?
Television?
Wal-Mart?
Hilary Duff?
Settle down, settle down,
I'm just kidding.
Still, you should see my point by now.
I can't, I can't, I can't, I can't, I can't,
(Sing it awfully loud, motherfucker)
I just can't give these ideas into surrender.
Not me.

Spying On You At 70 MPH

We were driving,
three people,
rather quietly.

Meaning that eleven a.m.
could've been much earlier.

It didn't really matter.

The scene was enough
to inspire nothing in particular.

Meaning that I painted it,
awhile ago,
and I've been staring at it since.

Never mind that I could stand
to look at something else.

Still, it needs to be established,
even if the modern age knows it
reasonably well.

You were in the driver's seat.
He was sitting next to you,
hand on a thigh,
eyes out the window.

He was there,
not there,
anywhere
is a little more probable.

You could say he left a hand behind.

I was in the back seat,
observing the chance to see
something different.

I kid myself on even days,
I guess.

And for some reason,
no reason
is a little more likely,
I turned my head
to face the road.

I noticed you
in the rearview mirror,
just the eyes.

At first,
I thought you were tired.
Exhausted
from having to tally up
the victories of old age
at nineteen.

Or just a little worn down
from making love in the same bathroom.

Maybe not,
since it seems to work for you,
for the day when weight gain
and hateful children finish you off.

At first.

At first,
because I couldn't remember
the last time I'd ever seen you
quite that sad.

I wanted to blame the radio.
The same goddamned sad song
running through our collective finger tips,
but I couldn't make it quite that easy.

I watched it for another moment,
hoping it would turn out to be one
of those thoughts you'd rather not consider anymore,
that leaves quickly with your kneecaps in a jar,
but you kept the look entirely intact.
You didn't even try to shake it off.

You were confident that no one was watching.
You believed that all you had to deal with was a
phantom hand.

And I was going to say something about it,
whatever it is a good friend is supposed to offer.

Whichever lie sounds the best in a crowded car.

Nearing the twenty minute mark,
I still couldn't think of a thing.
It bugged me,
especially since I couldn't smoke.

So, I just told myself that I didn't need to.
That it wasn't my responsibility these days.

You're going to be fine.

Eventually.

I guess.

It's not like you were crying.
Or anything.

I picked up my book,
opened it and put it back down,
then I looked off to the far right,
went back to the mocking field.

I decided to write a poem about you later.

A really good poem,
Because it would have a much better ending
than the one I was forced to settle for.



The New Age Earth Day



It's still the kind of holiday
where we can kick our shoes off
and watch them break someone else's window.

When we can murder even the kindest neighbor,
set fire to his better house and cleaner belongings,
and fuck his wife and/or kids in a nearby pool.

It's the time to really think you're really alive
and keep even the worst canned goods for yourself.

And don't worry if the guns fail to match
the ambition, ammunition, holy mission,
the nation under fire will still pick up your tab.

Orphans die either way, right?
That's what the great man on Television said.
With his great voice and pitch against the red and
black flags.

His suit was really clean, too,
the thugs to his left and right saved,
I admire that in a fleshy god.

I admire him,
The fleshy god.
The perfect god.

Even if I haven't seen him lately.

Come to think of it,
he hasn't said anything since the September speech.

Don't you remember?
The red helicopter and the fireworks took him away.

Along with the key,
which the papers say is on the other side of the
fence.
Unfortunately, you know,
four thousand feet of electricity can be a small
problem.

But what do we give a shit?
The fire's still in decent shape,
firearm's are still relentlessly free.

Drugs and confident liquor?
More than we ever complained
about never having enough of.

Huxley had one hell of an interesting point,
even if he might've been a communist.

Now,
let's go fuck some serious shit up.

We have too much time anyway.

Gabriel Ricard writes short fiction, poetry, stage plays, screenplays, novels, book reviews, and other non-fiction works. Born in Canmore, Alberta, Canada, he lives with his family in Waverly, Virginia.