Burgers And Buffoons
Standing at a local
fast food joint,
waiting for a burger,
I see an ad placard
for their newest
breakfast sandwich,
and I flash back
to Homer Simpson,
lying on the couch,
drooling over a TV commercial
for a burger, topped
with eggs, cheese, bacon...
the fattiest,
most artery clogging
monstrosity imaginable.
And we laughed,
because something like that
would never actually exist.
But here it is.
Yesterday’s satire incarnate,
as it is in so many ways—
the insane gadgetry
that we mindlessly serve,
the clowns and buffoons
that are running the show,
as the empire squeaks it’s way,
like a bloated, overfed pig,
to the packed,
hollowed ground
at the bottom
of the playground slide.
A Common Moth
after our letters and phone calls
I finally decided
and drove down in January
just in time to catch
the palm trees still decorated for Christmas
like she’d told me about
but before Valentines Day we
were already clawing at each other
like before
so I packed my bags
and hightailed it back to Reno
leaving her in Phoenix with a note—
Sorry, babe...
I guess we’re better off
as just an idea to one another
I thought I was so fuckin’ smart—
if I really was I wouldn’t have believed
either of us had changed—
me with the booze
her with the rock
both of us short-fused—
or that the fifth time
could be a charm
but those goddamn redheads
with their freckles
and their fire
Summer Job
they called us “The Stains”
all the old men in the maintenance department
at Glen Rock High School
like we were skid marks
in their decades-old underwear
we drove a beat up 70s Dodge truck—
“The Stainmobile”
the only thing in the fleet
we were allowed to touch
due to previous mishaps
and it showed the years
of teenaged boys driving it
to the town dump
with loads of leaves and tree branches
in every ding, scratch
and dent on its battered green body
yet it puttered on...
that old slant six with oil black as tar
its front end creaky
as an aging maintenance man’s knees
as he barked at one of us to—
Get back up on that ladder
you ain’t done yet, kid...
and today, if you don’t mind
Please Fuck Off
reformers are a pain in the ass
always nagging, cajoling
why don’t I fix my temper problem
cultivate healthy relationships
get up to date on current events
take care of that damn toenail fungus
and in general
get myself together
maybe I like myself
scattered all over the place
omnipresent, like a god
like I once was
like I shall be again
I’m acclimating to the chaos
a dress rehearsal
if you will
besides, if I did all the things
you suggest....you know—
maintain my car on schedule...
take financial matters
more seriously...
plan for my future...
that’s all time taken away
time wasted
time I could have been
doing nothing but sitting here
perhaps scribbling, daydreaming,
or just scratching my balls
and enjoying the moments
of my all too brief
existence
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," (2020) was published by Pony One Dog Press.
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