Brian Rihlmann

Poems

 

Thank You, Dan Fante

 

man...you did your job

at taking me off the hook

when I read how you got drunk and

whacked off on the plane

on the way home from rehab

then wiped your jizz 

across the lips

of your sleeping wife

who was having an affair 

because she was tired 

of your sorry ass

 

the worst I’ve ever done

is to jerk off 

into a drawerful 

of bras and panties

 

on the welcome mat

of a neighbor’s apartment 

when she kept avoiding me

after our first date

 

and once 

inside the crotch

of a pair of men’s jeans

that really shouldn’t have been there yet—

I’d only been gone a week

I still had my key 

and a promise

of “working things out”

 

I should’ve broken it off

in the lock 

when I left—

a symbolic gesture 

 

but I didn’t think of that

until just now

 

 

 

Fucked Up for All Eternity

 

she had the messiah thing

that some of them get

and maybe it’s true—

maybe she DID

save someone from

being molested, raped

or killed

 

who knows

about such things?

 

she told me

about guys who paid her

to piss or shit in their mouths

guys who paid her

to pretend to be a dead girl

an unwilling girl

or a little girl

begging them

in a squeaky voice

to “fuck me harder, daddy!”

 

I said “Wow...that’s fucked up!”

she smiled and said

“I feed my kids off it being fucked up.

Fucked up ain’t goin’ nowhere, honey.”

 

 

 

Damaged Goods

 

to her....

the difference

between hate and love

was a punch rather than a slap

the buckle end

instead of the leather

 

whether a guy would

spit in her face

with enough force

to blow her bangs back

or let it drip slowly

off his tongue

and into her mouth

 

they played with her

batted her around

until they got bored

like a cat will

once the sparrow’s dead

 

then she met a man

who only held her hand

and kissed her

made love to her at night

 

and after, confused,

she’d sneak out while he slept

cruise the rough bars

full of rough men

damaged goods

and return home

bruised and raw

with their come on her breath

 

when he finally left

she said to herself, “See?”

she’d known it all along—

he was no different

a user...like all the rest

 

 

 

Breathe Deep!

 

they tiptoe in...

I had one today

come and whisper

“hey...what if you

leave this gig

and your next employer

decides to google you?

you know...that one you wrote...

where you told the boss

to go fuck himself...

or the other one

where you were gonna

kill the supervisor

who fired you?”

 

I listened...sighed

and said “yeah....

well that’s something

to consider.  thanks!”

 

he winks

says “no problem!”

then closes the door

and splits like someone

who just cut the cheese

and wants to let you

stew in it for awhile

 

 

 

Attitude

 

one’s attitude

is often talked about

like dirty underwear

 

I’ve heard this

since I was a kid

 

but mine seems

more like a leopard’s spots

or an Ethiopian’s skin

like the good book saith

 

and also—

you don’t ask the potter

about your shape

or about that thumbprint

yeah...that one...

right there!

 

maybe a near death experience

or a visit from a ghost

 

my third eye opens

I wipe away a lifetime

of encrusted gunk

 

(an acid trip? shrooms?)

 

for now

I lie in the river

a stone

 

the water

flows over me

and I say farewell

a grain at a time

 

 

 

Brian Rihlmann was born in New Jersey and currently resides in Reno, Nevada. He writes free verse poetry, and has been published in The Blue Nib, The American Journal of Poetry, Cajun Mutt Press, The Rye Whiskey Review, and others. His first poetry collection, Ordinary Trauma (2019) was published by Alien Buddha Press.