Brian Rihlmann

I remember in New Orleans,
we walked from our hotel
down to the rails
on St. Charles Avenue
...

The hands have vanished.
The puppets strewn carelessly,
laying about, sleeping,
as puppets are lazy when
...

A hug, or a slap in the face.
Money for a bottle,
or a meal instead.
A kind or harsh word.
...

As our faces wrinkle,
and our hair turns grey,
the world's colors fade
to a similar shade.
...

Some weekends
you stay in the same clothes,
don't shower, brush your teeth,
or comb your hair,
...

It's not the ripples
on the water's surface
that drive us mad,
...

I threw it to
the wounded ones,
the ones with
eyes like chipped ice,
...

playing with minutes
like an alley cat
with a spider
a butterfly
...

they will throw sand in your face
laugh as you stagger blindly
pushing and shoving
when you raise a hand
...

Moans of the disabled
from the house next door,

whining from a neighbor's dog,
...

Standing at a local
fast food joint,
waiting for a burger,
I see an ad placard
...

There ought to be
a monument,
a sort of war memorial
for workers killed
...

You cannot walk
among them anymore,
cannot step
into the town square,
...

Poems about sunsets
flowers, and doves in flight,
are well and good,
...

At the summit I stop,
lean forward
with hands resting
on my thighs,
...

There's a deep ache
in my shoulder joint,
a nagging injury
from years
...

Grew up blue collar
in a white collar town,
and learned
to despise myself,
...

A song drifts
through my head,
and from the mental echo
of her voice,
...

The stunning depths
to which we may fall,
the catacombs
of self loathing
...

We worked together
in that pizzeria,
back in the kitchen
sweating through
...