YOUNG MAN
Remember—
when she smiles at you,
she’s showing her teeth.
Later on,
you’ll understand why.
You’ll have no excuse.
It was all right there—
telegraphed
from the get-go.
LIMITATIONS
Years ago, I discovered
the limits of photography,
after climbing my first fourteener.
There was a moment,
emerging through that notch
on the flank of Longs Peak
known as “The Keyhole”;
a sweeping view,
a joyous vertigo
as the world fell away,
and I soared,
feeling completely alone,
yet completely connected.
Later, I got the photos developed.
I stared into that flattened
two-dimensional version
of my experience,
and sank. Ruined.
I don’t know what I expected,
but I’d captured nothing.
I think I’m beginning
to see poetry like that.
It’s like saying, “I love you,”
for the first time.
Or later, when you say,
or don’t quite say, “It’s over.”
But there’s a lot missing,
outside the frame.
POINT....WINNER!
I committed what in your eyes
was a Facebook faux pas,
which was followed by
a couple months of silent treatment,
followed by deletion.
Having discovered my new
non-friend status,
I took it a step further—
and blocked you.
Then today,
I found your book,
and tore it to pieces.
Right across the back cover
and your smiling face.
Right across the pages
that dripped
with your glorious journey
through madness.
Pages I loved.
Pages that I thought
understood me.
Pages that betrayed.
It felt pretty fucking good.
I’d say—
do the same to mine.
Maybe you already have.
Except my face
isn’t on the cover
of my book.
So I win...
I think.
A CHRONIC MALCONTENT
eventually...you get there
to that awful place
we all know—
you should leave...
should’ve already left
like a bad relationship
but you hang on
you hang on, cause—
the devil you know, right?
the comfy, well furnished rut...
so you stay awhile
you build your hatreds
nurture them
love them
like precious children
you find ways
to waste time—
their time
the time they pay you for
the time that’s your life
the time you’ve whored yourself for
for a paycheck
just to survive in this mad system
you’ve never understood
or accepted
you’ve been told
you should care
you should be grateful
you’ve tried to swallow this
but you can’t
you can’t get there from here
you’re not the god of yourself
so you sneak outside
and stand in the sunlight
you write poems at your desk
you read articles online
or look at porn
and then jerk off
in the employee bathroom
you train yourself
to move slowly
against what you’ve been taught
against the embedded urge
to race like a fucking lunatic
fuck the work
fuck the orders that MUST go out
or the world will end
just....fuck it!
then you begin
conversing aloud
with your demons
so they’ll know you’re batshit
you don’t hide it anymore
and when they finally
shitcan your ass
don’t worry—
you still get the pleasure
of hating their guts
forever
THANKS!
I wish I could write like you
he says
this is a compliment—
I think it is...
he’s a young man
I was young once, too—
I think I was...
do I tell him?
do I say
you might need
more time?
you might have to go get drunk
for ten or twenty years
and shatter your heart
a dozen
a hundred
a thousand times
you might have to
give up writing
and then go back to it
and then quit again
and start and stop
and start and stop
like breaking up
and going back to her
over and over
even though
she drives you crazy
even though
she fucks other guys
while you’re working
12 hour shifts
graveyard shifts
and why do you think
they call them that?
you might have to
finally pry yourself
away from her
and roam aimlessly
around the country
blown by the wind
like an empty shopping bag
searching
for what you think is missing
and never find it
you can’t find
the sky
or the earth
either
all of this is true
but none of it
would be consolation
just like everything
that was ever told to me
by older men
agonies already endured
tales told with a chuckle
and a smile
tragedies ripened to comedy
on the tree of time
so instead
I say
thanks!
that’s a nice compliment!
See also Brian’s poems from 28 May 2019 here:
https://georgedanderson.blogspot.com/2019/05/featuring-brian-rihlmann.html
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