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Jason Ridpath
Sorry for being stern.
And, for my excessive apologies.
Now, won’t you please wait your turn.
Be quiet old friend.
Thought I needed you.
Often conceded truths.
Acted absent and aloof.
Drank you to test my youth.
Old friend, Jim, Jack, and the Russian Vodka.
Hats off, our times were top of the pops.
Plastic bag was our one stop.
Drinking Cuba in the forest near Fort Doorson.
How did things get so good.
I know they felt so dreadful.
How did things get so good.
Idealising the past oblivious of how you felt in the moment.
Sitting on the curb across from Starbucks
smoking scooby and drinking cheap vodka
with Francis the homeless rock artist,
I blink and the shops become a gender-neutral
way to write Hebrew. I don't think you've ever
known hard times, said my father, and I hope
you never will. Penguins congregate around
DuPont Circle Fountain for a flash mob.
Let's get married, says Francis. Why not?
I empty my wisdom into the ground behind
China Daily and say, Teach me to panhandle.
The wind herds me into a diner where the cooks
don't think I understand Spanish. Esta haciendo
la poesra, they joke when I break wind.
Later that night, Shakespeare visits me and tries
to sell me a bag of Tina successfully.
so i drink the last bottle of vodka
and smoke that pack of cigarettes.
i like the burn
the burn of strong alcohol going down my throat
and the burn of grey cigarette smoke that's slowly turning my lungs black.
i have them in hopes of feeling something.
something instead of nothing
bleed me dry
of vodka blood
for failures in
this life
become
obvious
and eat
eat away
at what I really should have been