Unicorns

 

—Poetry by Brian Rihlmann, Reno, NV

—Public Domain Photos

TAKES ONE TO KNOW ONE
 
as the cooks
prepare the dinner trays
and I stack them on a cart
they talk about how they
can't send pineapple
to the kids' unit anymore
 
there's a girl over there
with a severe allergy, you see
and at first they'd
just eliminate it from her meal
but she'd always manage
to get her hands on someone’s
trying to go into anaphylactic shock
and get the hell out of there
and maybe the world
that way
 
and now, says Tony
shaking his head
it's barbecue sauce
because apparently
that's got pineapple in it too
 
I say how sad
yet innovative that is
 
they look at me
 
I'm a moron
I've allowed my aberrance
to seep
 
I keep my mouth shut as we finish
then I load the van and
drive toward those hungry kids
waiting for me out there
in the darkness 

 

 

 

 


MUCH LIKE LIFE
 
these days
in order to not waste
more of my precious time
I actually read
some of the journals
that have previously
rejected my work...
 
...sort of read them
 
it’s tough when you
look at something
that resembles confetti
or a jigsaw puzzle
dumped on the floor
 
the broken lantern
of a madman
 
my first thought is usually—
what the fuck?
and my second—
no wonder they rejected me
 
trying to sift my way
through this rubble
makes me feel like I do
listening to the new generation
of death metal
enjoyed by my younger friends
 
what I like is now “Old School”
 
it’s impressive, no doubt
a mad flurry of strings and drums
a patchwork of time signatures
a total sonic assault
 
lacking any groove
 
nothing, not a thread
to grab hold of
as the notes swirl all around me
like a lone figure
in a shaken snow globe 

 

 

 

 

SO HAPPY
 
every time I see my
old friend she
tells me how
great her life is now
it's stress free
and she loves her
job and the house
she lives in—
just her and her dog
she's done with men
and all that nonsense
she's too old
for that anymore
I haven't had a cock in me
in over ten years
she says, laughing
 
so we visit awhile
and she tells me
how fucked up her
estranged daughter is
and how she's
fighting with her sister, again
and twenty minutes
after I've said
well...I better go now
just in case I've forgotten
she reminds me
that she's happy
and loves her life
as she feeds me
cookies and brownies
here, try these!
and whatever else
she's baked lately
as I inch toward the door
and that damned mutt
bites at my shoelaces
like a nest of tiny snakes

 

 

 

 

UNICORN
 
a true nonconformist
would point and laugh
at all the other nonconformists
 
with their peace signs
swastikas
or pentagrams
 
with their tattoos
piercings
and rainbow hair
 
or their black leather jackets
black eyeliner
and black fingernails
 
all huddled together
in flocks
 
he'd point and laugh
at his own reflection
then run naked
bald and unadorned
through the streets
pointing and laughing
at everything
and everyone
 
he'd never quit
until they tossed him
in a cell someplace
 
and maybe
not even then

___________________

Today’s LittleNip(s):

When I look at myself in the mirror, I see a unicorn. A badass unicorn.

—Sebastien Milon

* * *

A unicorn is just a horse with a point of view.

—Ron Sexsmith

____________________

Welcome back to the Kitchen, Brian! It’s been a while since Brian visited us, so here’s reminder: Brian Rihlmann lives and writes in Reno, Nevada. His work has appeared in many magazines, including The Rye Whiskey Review, Fearless, Heroin Love Songs, Chiron Review and The Main Street Rag. His latest poetry collection, Night At My Throat, was published in 2020 by Pony One Dog Press. He was first featured in Medusa’s Kitchen in May of 2019; see medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/search?q=brian+rihlmann and scroll down. For more about this Nevada poet, go to allpoetry.com/Brian_Rihlmann/.

____________________

—Medusa

 

 

 

Brian Rihlmann

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Photos in this column can be enlarged by
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Under the Desert Sun

Brian Rihlmann

—Poems by Brian Rihlmann, Reno, NV
—Anonymous Photos of the Nevada Desert

I WAS HAPPY

I dreamed I was perfectly happy
my head was a quiet place
I sat in a room with people
who talked and smiled
someone laughed
and it struck me funny
so I laughed too

the tv was on
a show about a family
they argued a lot
but they loved each other
I just watched and felt content

then a voice said
“It’s a nice day, let’s go outside!”

someone wiped the drool
from my chin
ran their fingers
across my scalp
and said,
“This is healing nicely.”

then they patted my cheek
and pushed my wheelchair
out the door
onto the front porch

it was glorious—
the sunshine
the blue sky
and the bright flowers
in the little garden

I made happy sounds
grunted and moaned
like an animal
but no words
came from my mouth 

FORGETTING MY NAME

i’ve overheard it referred to
as “bipolar asshole disorder”
and endured a barroom chat
where someone’s big mouth
assured me
that mental illness was a ruse
a hiding place for cowards

“if these people
got a screw loose
or something rattling around up there
they should just keep it to themselves”

i smiled and nodded
and didn’t crush his skull
with my barstool

later i killed him
with hundred-proof shots
and beer backs
until i’d forgotten
my own name

HOW’S THE LOVE LIFE?

It may be this question,
above all others,
that keeps me from parties
and family gatherings,
particularly the sort
with those semi-estranged
who seem soooo happy
to see me,
and say how often
they wonder about me,
though my phone hasn’t rung
in two years, going on three.

The question bores me,
and the “why not?” that follows,
every bit as much as the ones
about the new job, the new car,
or other things supposedly momentous,
and worthy of discussion.

And I steer the conversation towards
questions about the meaning of things—
the country, the universe,
or even a single, brief blossom
withering under the desert sun.

HALFWAY BETWEEN

I’m not very good
at being alone anymore
and I was never very good
at being with someone either

if I could find the place
halfway between “with”
and “apart”
I’d happily live there...

Oh, maybe I have—
It’s called “the internet.”

POET, OR BOYFRIEND

you just want an honest man
you say
one that won’t play games
like the others

you don’t

trust me on this

as for me
i now realize
i can be a poet
or someone’s boyfriend
but not both

i suppose i could
write in secret
use a pseudonym

or else write nothing
but love poems
praising you
and us

or about strangers i see
on sidewalks
at the supermarket
imagining their truth
their joys and sorrows

i could write about anything
but my own guts
and marrow
the heart that sometimes feels
like an alien presence
inside me

that tugs me
down strange roads
past signs that read
“do not enter”

all those shocking
and seedy tales
which drew you in
but now...

you’re having second thoughts 

THE GIFT

face it, my friend
they don’t want the real you
and they never did

your inner truth
was a thing they laughed at
like a clown

an absurdity that
made them feel
less broken, more whole

they want clever memes
idiotic videos
and photoshopped reality

they want cute pictures
of kittens and puppies
and hallmark cliches

they want the regurgitated opinions of others
more famous and successful
and even dead

the last words of a suicidal celebrity
on a meth bender
are worth more than yours

they don’t want your heart
they treat it like a half-eaten rat
dragged in by the cat

they may smile politely at the gift
but when you leave
they grab it by the tail

and with pinched faces
carry it outside
and drop it in the trash

___________________

Today’s LittleNip:

If a poem isn’t emotionally honest…then what the fuck good is it?

—Brian Rihlmann

___________________

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 and has an upcoming piece in The American Journal Of Poetry. His work can also be found on allpoetry.com/Brian_Rihlmann/. Welcome to the Kitchen, Brian, and don’t be a stranger!

Today’s a busy day in poetry readings in our area as we celebrate, among other things, Walt Whitman’s 200th birthday. For more about that, see www.philly.com/arts/walt-whitman-200th-birthday-philadelphia-camden-university-of-pennsylvania-20190528.html/. In our area, there will be a reading in the Old City Cemetery on Broadway in Sacramento at noon, followed at 7pm at the Sac. Poetry Center with more reading from area poets, 7pm.

Also tonight at 7pm, and also on Broadway in Sacramento, Speak Up: The Art of Storytelling and Poetry meets at The Avid Reader with a reading on the theme of Summertime. And at 7:30pm in Sacramento City Hall, 915 I St., Renegade Literati features readings of fiction (Jodi Angel), music (Ross Hammond), poetry (Chad Sweeney), along with visual art (Daniel Schoori). Scroll down to the blue column (under the green column at the right) for info about these and other upcoming poetry events in our area—and note that more may be added at the last minute.

Today is another birthday worth noting: Medusa’s Kitchen was born on May 31, 2005. Happy birthday, bad girl, and thank you to all the hundreds of contributors who’ve graced the Kitchen with their work in 14 years!

—Medusa, celebrating poets from today and from the past!

 Happy Birthday, Walt!

 
 

Photos in this column can be enlarged by
clicking on them once, then clicking on the x
in the top right corner to come back to Medusa.