Featuring Brian Rihlmann

THE QUESTIONABLE MOTIVES OF A POET

One writes nothing
but drunken threats
of razor blade suicide,
and another, endlessly,
about heartbreak,
and picking up
the broken pieces.

He writes love poems
to a long gone
high school sweetheart,
and she pens sonnets
about nature’s majesty
and the glory of god.

And there are the fuck obsessed,
and unabashed lovers
of bondage ropes,
and the sting of the whip.

And purveyors of fantasy:
knights and maidens,
elves and sorcerers,
and fire breathing dragons,

or those who travel
acid trip realms of the surreal
and write things like:

“cricket shadows scream
red moonlight bleeds
lizard tails slither
across weeping skies
thorny vines grow
from fiery eyes”

it’s as though an artist
took a wet shit on canvas,
and smeared it around
like a toddler’s finger painting.

He knows what it means...
but I sure as hell don’t.

And then there’s the guy...

who plumbs the rotten underbelly
of every bright and beautiful thing,
who sees dark mischief
in every child’s smile,
and hears the death rattle
in a newborn’s cry,

who waves his dirty laundry
under your nose
seeking salvation,

and who somehow believes
that if he confesses everything
that makes him an asshole....

then he can go on
being one,
with impunity,

and maybe even
get laid because of it.

“The world’s last honest man” right?

I’m sick of that guy.
Smile,
you fuck.

THE OLD CRONE DOES HARD TIME

I generally cringe
when I hear glassy eyed, new age types
talking about transmigration of the soul
as though it were an absolute fact, like gravity.

But there’s something to this idea
of the “Old Soul.”

Because there’s an old woman
in here. A real old crone. Nasty as fuck.
She’s been around, ya know?
Been through some shit.
Jumped from one skin sack
to another, for who knows how long.

She knows all the tricks.
The mercenary ways
of brain and heart.
She’s heard every bullshit excuse,
and alternately cackles
or groans at most
of what people say and do.

She sits on the front porch
of my house human,
slowly rocking in her chair,
spittoon on one side,
shotgun on the other.
Loaded and cocked.

I can picture her standing
before a tribunal of the powers that be,
before being sent back here
from the underworld.

I see a half-circle of black hooded men,
their faces lost in shadow,
as she practically begs
“Please guys, not another body...”

But they laugh,
and off she goes,
flipping the bird on the fly,
and her “fuck you” translates
into my first ever scream,
as I am yanked out
into the cold.

The unsuspecting parents
wind up with a baby
who looks at grownups like idiots
when they babble at him
or play peekaboo.

People say he seems pissed off.
Resentful. (Well, no shit!)
He doesn’t smile much,
or pose for photos,
or play well with other children.

And doesn’t cry
when the goldfish,
or the dog,
or people,
die.

He knows better.
Or she does.

SUCCESS STORY

Once having seen
the kind of life
that awaited,
a bowl of oatmeal
bland and grey,
my ambition fizzled
like a pissed on flame.

Success became redefined 
as a futile struggle
to smash every 
faded yardstick 
to splinters,
to run down 
their roadside mileposts
leaving them mangled
in my wake,

and to break myself
against the secret
stone tablets
locked deep
in my vault.

See more work from Rihlmann here from a 19 July 2020 BM post: https://georgedanderson.blogspot.com/2020/07/featuring-brian-rihlmann.html

Brian Rihlmann was born in NJ and currently lives in Reno, NV. He writes mostly semi-autobiographical, confessional free verse. Folk poetry...for folks. He has been published in Constellate Magazine, Poppy Road Review, The Rye Whiskey Review, Cajun Mutt Press and has an upcoming piece in The American Journal of Poetry.