trigger warning: this poem may contain love, america, the ghosts of feeling sorry, radiohead lyrics, justice and injustice (in order), the prefrontal cortex, random assorted fish, and a pregnant baby

by Ron Riekki

We were listening to Slayer

and this was in Negaunee

and Negaunee is a town where

if Jesus Christ ever returns to Earth

He would be crucifixed there

politely

and we’re in a car

without Jesus—

it’s just me,

Critter Ditter,

Azz,

and ‘Bo,

and our nicknames are horrible

and our last names are even more horrible

with letters slapped together that make it look like a pile of pubic hair

and we’re young

in this poem—

in real life,

we’re old

or dead

or both—

but in this poem

we look like we could be in a movie

if the producers didn’t have much money

and we’re in a car

that looks like it’s overdosing

on

rust

and it’s a Tuesday

and we’re drunk

and I’m sorry

world,

but this poem is going to be straight forward

and maybe homosexual backward

and maybe bisexual sideways

and maybe whatever else I want it to be

but we’re in this stupid car

on a stupid Tuesday

in stupid Negaunee

and it’s winter

because it’s always

winter

in Negaunee

like the town thinks it’s

Narnia

or something

and we’re trying to wreck the car.

That’s the goal.

It’s a simple goal.

But we can’t wreck the car.

But we’re trying.

Because the car is on its deathbed

and we think

we can never die

because we’re boys

and dumb

and

dogs

and dollarless

and dumbfounded

and found that we’re dumb

and Critter Ditter is driving

if you can call it that

and it’s his car

and his Dad

is in prison,

at least I think it’s his Dad,

because who can do math in America? and

we want to destroy the car

because it represents

us

and Negaunee

and the Upper Michigan

and the Upper U.S.

and the Upper Earth

and we’re driving into snowbanks, but the snow

keeps banking us

back

onto the road

and so we road

around

like that

until

we hit a mailbox

and the car died

and the mailbox died

and the owner

came out

and the owner

was a pastor

in town

and he looked at us

like we

were breasts

and I meant to type

beasts,

but I like breasts

in this poem

and in real life

and in fake life

and in medium life

and he came out

and started cursing

and we knew him

and he doesn’t curse

but he was cursing

and not like cursing-type cursing,

where it’s the f-word and the c-word and the z-word and the w-word,

but cursing

where it’s cursing

like what witches

do

with

abracadabra-abecedarian-type shit

and we were stunned

and scared

and ran

away

into the snow

and onto the snow

and out of the snow

and ended up

breathless

in the middle of the woods

in the middle of the night

like we were

witches

and we were

witches

and we realized it

in that haunted loss of forest

with the trees like goblins

and the moon like sticks

and the clouds like greyblood

and Azz

started praying,

seriously,

to Jesus,

seriously

and we let him

and we sobered up

and we couldn’t feel our feet

and we couldn’t feel our dicks

and we couldn’t feel our faces,

but we felt kinda sick

and nauseous

and guilty

and like we wished we were normal

and good

and decent

and kind

and we weren’t

and we walked home

silent

with the ghosts around us

walking next to us

and the skeletons

coming out of the ground

to walk with us

and we got home

and got eaten

by our simple homes

and woke up

the next decade

like none of it happened

and all of it happened

and I worry

about the curse

sometimes

especially now

single

at this age

where I want to kill myself

sometimes

but other times

I want to write

poems.

Like

now.

            My uncle fell and broke his hip

and he was lying on the ground

and his computer was playing

The Rolling Stones

“(I Can’t Get No) Satisfaction”

and the guitar riff was kicking in

and the song starting up

and he wasn’t a huge fan of the song,

but a little bit of a fan,

but he was on the floor,

alone,

having a stroke

and he couldn’t move

and his phone was on his bed

and he couldn’t move

and the song was playing

and he was lying there

and tried to move,

but it hurt too much

and the song was saying

how white his shirts can be

and something about cigarettes

and my uncle wanted a cigarette

bad

and the song kept repeating,

caught on a loop,

over and over

and the song is already repetitive,

but at the end

this ad would come on

for Geico

and my uncle was lying

on the floor for hours

hours

and hours

until the next day,

37 hours

37 freaking hours

before a neighbor heard him yelling

and my

poor

uncle listened to “(I Can’t Get No) Satisfaction”

for 37 hours and 14 minutes,

over and over

and that goddamn Geico ad

at the end

kept coming on

over and over

just shoving Geico down his throat

over and over

and the computer was plugged in

so it wouldn’t die

and he wanted it to die

even throwing his keys

at the computer

and missing

and there was Mick Jagger

strutting around

with his perfectly

good

hips

on the screen

and there was my uncle

wondering if he was going to die

and wondering if he already did die

and Hell was “oh  no  no  no!”

four thousand times

and that guitar riff

that he says

now

he hears

every single day

whether or not

it’s playing,

how it’s implanted into

his body

and he lived

and then

later,

years later,

he died,

and whenever that song comes on

I always think

of how

my uncle had

a tattoo of

The Rolling Stones

on his stomach

and who the hell

gets a tattoo

on their stomach?

Photo of Ron Riekki

BIO: Ron Riekki received a 2022 Pushcart Prize. Right now, he's listening to "Ol' Dirty Bastard - Shimmy Shimmy Ya (Official Video) [Explicit]."