Brian Rihlmann

by Brian Rihlmann

If she had bruises

and maybe some rugburn

or needle marks

and wore too much eyeliner

to brighten a pair

of dead, glassy eyes

then she was my kind

and if she’d been scraped out

a couple of times

or better yet

had a couple of live kids

who lived with their dad—

but she hadn’t abandoned them, no—

they were just living with him

because the schools were better

in that neighborhood

than the shithole she lived in

while she was getting it together

going to beauticians’ school

and dancing (temporarily)

in that club

but currently on her knees

sucking me off

after our first “date”

at some dark dive

then I was a complete goner

that’s why it never worked

with you

and you . . . and you

you returned calls

and showed up on time, sober

you shined too bright

your souls weren’t knives

I recoiled from in horror

you couldn’t give me

the pain I needed

to want to seek asylum

in your darkness

ESTRANGEMENT

by Brian Rihlmann

I hope you understand

why I won’t be coming

for Thanksgiving this year

or ever

because I would have to be

roaring drunk

to see you again

numb enough to forget

how you abandoned her

at the end

while I spooned mush

between her grey lips

and draped a

mountain of blankets

over her bones

because she was so

so cold

but no amount of blankets

could warm that kind of chill

how you burned her up

like garbage

when it was over

and collected the money

not the ashes

I would have to drink

an entire fifth of whiskey

to endure your hugs and smiles

to return your kind words

when you say

how much you’ve missed me

these last few years

years that my phone

hasn’t rang once

FIRST WORLD HERD

by Brian Rihlmann

open the gates

and get the hell out of the way

if ya know what’s good for ya. . . .

you ain’t dealing with

starving third-world refugees

hungry for sacks of rice here, pal

this the first world variety

junkies for electronic distraction

from the cushy tedium of their lives

fiends for the things

they’ve been groomed to want—

happiness on sale for $99.99

they’ll pepper spray you

trample you

cut your throat to get it

it ain’t worth it

for minimum wage

so get out of the way

let ‘em trash the place

but stand back

go home to your wife and kids

don’t make this Friday

any blacker

than it is already

CHRISTMAS MORNING IN AN EAST HOLLYWOOD HOVEL

by Brian Rihlmann

I awake

on Christmas morning

in a filthy, dusty room

to the smell

of cigarette smoke

drifting in. . . .

So I tiptoe out,

and there he sits

at the kitchen table,

holding his cig,

drinking a beer

at 9 AM

It’s him, all right:

the bloodshot eyes

with red nose to match,

the deep acne scars,

and a faint smile pasted

on that monkey mouth of his.

I pull out a chair

sit down across from him

and spit it out:

“I do NOT fucking write like you!”

The smile twitches,

increases ever so slightly.

Then he belches beer in my face

through crooked yellow teeth,

laughs, and says,

“What did you think

they’d say, kid?”

“I had a whole crazy life

of my own,

filled with dive bars,

dope and whores

long before

I ever heard your name, pal. . . .

back when the only poetry

I gave a shit about

were song lyrics I wrote

for my band.”

He nods,

leans back in his chair

and squints at me

as though he’s reading

some very fine print

scrawled across my face.

I continue:

“So now

I can’t write about

my own agonies

just because you did?

Put our stuff

side by side,

it doesn’t even

read the same.”

He cocks his head slightly, says,

“You know . . .

I think you must be crazy, baby.

I never wasted time

I could have spent drinking

to pick a fight with a dead man.”

Now I smile, as his fades.

“We all fight with dead men, Hank . . .

just different ones.”

He sits silent a moment,

then raises his beer bottle

as though toasting me,

tilts his head back

and drains what’s left

in a gulp.

A SEASON OF BAILING WIRE AND DUCT TAPE

by Brian Rihlmann

Most people will tell you

they are sick

of the holiday frenzy,

and yet it continues

year after year.

The smashed pumpkins have not yet

begun to rot in the streets,

but here comes the parade

of inflatable reindeer,

Rudolph's nose glowing

like a red beacon,

leading us to retail purgatory.

I must confess,

I get dark enjoyment

and even laugh

at the videos posted

on Black Friday,

a day I seldom

leave the house.

You'd think these were starving refugees,

grabbing at sacks of rice,

not spoiled Americans

snatching up TVs

and video games,

huffing and puffing,

squawking and flapping their arms

like overfed birds of prey.

But I suppose these days

being a good consumer

is the same

as being a good citizen:

without the debt-fueled

spending spree,

many jobs would vanish,

like a child's joy at a broken toy,

and the whole rickety framework

come crashing down.

So let's all hang our hopes

on plastic, and keep buying

their crap for years to come . . .

every charge like another

strand of bailing wire,

or strip of duct tape.

Just slap it on there,

It'll hold. . . .

Deer in the Headlights

by Brian Rihlmann

I met Randee at the same dive

as all the others

we wound up back at her apartment

on Robinhood Drive

(why do my girls always live

in such shitty neighborhoods?)

where we did our drunken thing

to forget how lonely we were

because just getting wasted together

under the same roof

wouldn’t cure it. . . . go figure

of course neither did

being stuck together

like a couple of feral cats

for 23 minutes

or however long it took

somehow, I found myself home

in the morning

my car was intact

parked evenly

between the lines

no dents, no blood

no hair stuck in the grille

sometime in the early afternoon

came a knock—

it was her and two little ones

a boy and a girl

I asked how she found me

bigmouth Tracy

at the bar

had told her

(and how did she know?

I hadn’t fucked her. . . . had I?)

Anyway . . . I thought you might

want to meet my kids, she said

she told me their names

but they somehow disappeared

into a miniature black hole

occupying the two feet of space between us

along with everything else she said

as I stared with tunnel vision

shook their little hands

and tried my best Mr. Rogers smile

while they regarded me

with wide and leery eyes

I have no idea what kind of

expression I wore

as we stood there in the doorway

facing each other in excruciating daylight

for what seemed an eternity

until she said—

Well. . . . we better go . . .

See you later!

but it evidently told her

all she needed to know

because she never knocked

on my door again

I, Cartographer

by Brian Rihlmann

an old friend and I

are talking and she comments

on how well I know myself

and I guess that’s true, now,

although I wish it wasn’t

such a necessity

it’s taken many years

to learn this terrain

a long and agonizing process

of learning where NOT to step—

for it is far from being

a wide-open field

a place easily mapped

but is filled with

dangerous and ravenous beasts

snares and pitfalls

quicksand and

crumbling side-trails

that meander perilously close

to one edge or another

but oh my

how spectacular the view

of hell is

from there

the stars too

are beautiful

from afar

I’ll Paint You a Picture

by Brian Rihlmann

the editors today say

the word heart is anathema

and soul? even worse. . . . well,

fuck you, I say—

what do you want me

to call It? It—

you know . . . the It

we’re always talking about . . .

the It we point to

in so many ways

ohhh . . . you want me

to paint It for you?

well, I was never

very good at that

but I think my mother

has some of my childhood drawings

in a box here, let’s see . . .

here’s a metal band on stage

from the makeup

on their basketball-shaped faces

I think it’s early Motley Crue

Tommy’s pounding the drums

with his sticklike arms

and Vince is wailing his lungs out

shouting at the devil

here’s a little leaning house

its angles all out of whack

it sits in a valley alone

no roads lead to it

there’s a dark forest

in the background

probably filled with

terrifying creatures

that I couldn’t render

but it’s definitely implied

and here, last one—

a battle-wounded ship

floats upon a tumultuous sea

in flames, smoke billowing,

but its guns are still firing

at some invisible enemy

off the page

Brian Rihlmann was born in NJ, and currently lives in Reno, NV. He writes mostly semiautobiographical, 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.

In Association with Fossil Publications