BRIAN RIHLMANN

BRIAN

RIHLMANN

THE PULSE

other cities

always seem more interesting

but it’s good, once in awhile

to prowl the streets of your own

to feel it’s pulse in your toes

today, as I drive towards downtown

streets are barricaded everywhere

and I backtrack two, three times

finally find street parking, unmetered

(I’m a fucking local....I ain’t paying!)

I park

start walking

past the bus station

the street people

with shopping carts

or duffel bags

past a casino

where a guy shoves chips

in my face

like a dope dealer

offering a little taste

past the courthouse

I helped build, years ago

with its strange sculpture—

a flat piece of steel

drilled with large holes—

and wonder

if this was the artist’s idea

of a joke—

a rusty, Swiss cheese abomination

in front of a place

that dispenses justice

I walk on

across the Virginia Street bridge

find the source

of all those barricades—

the beer-fest

of course

white tents

line the main drag

iced down kegs

and frosty glasses

people drinking

smiling, laughing

fuck!

I’m thirsty

and painfully sober

I should leave

maybe head down East 4th

where the hookers stroll

but no...

too early in the day

they’re shut up

in cheap rooms

with the shades pulled tight

sleeping off last night’s horror show

of hideous bodies

souls, and cock

I walk back

to where the river flows

green and swollen

head west

toward the mountains

cottonwood seed

fills the air

tiny puffs

of a million daydreams

float, rise and fall

in the brilliant June sunshine

EITHER/OR

which is worse—

to sit in a room alone

or with someone

who chatters

and picks at your soul

until it resembles

a stripped carcass

by the side of the road

I lie on my bed

stare at the ceiling

and ponder the either/or

as people in pairs

or in groups

pass by my window

talking, going somewhere

A moth flies in

through the blinds

circles the light

dances with his shadow

inside the shade

and then leaves again

evidently not finding

what he sought

SCATTERING SEEDS AND SMILES

Mom crouched in the grass

with her little girl,

showing how the dandelion

had gone to seed,

how to make a wish and blow.

She didn’t quite have the lungs yet

but she found a solution...

and after, as she ran barefoot

through the park

laughing and kicking

those puffball heads,

scattering seeds everywhere,

Mom considered the green lawn

at home, and thought,

“What have I done?”

But she still smiled.

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 The Rye Whiskey Review, Cajun Mutt Press, Alien Buddha Zine, Synchronized Chaos, Madness Muse Press and The American Journal Of Poetry.