Brian Rihlmann was born in New Jersey and now lives in Reno, Nevada.
He works regular, mostly blue collar jobs to support his poetry habit, and has surprisingly little to say about himself in either bios or dating site profiles. He prefers his poetry to tell his story. 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, with another book forthcoming sometime in 2021.
my friend V is a helluva cook she invites me over sometimes tonight it’s stuffed pork chops with mashed potatoes halfway through the meal she looks at me, exhales, and says— Do you know you smack your lips when you eat? I do? she chuckles, Yeah... must be a bachelor thing for the rest of the meal I chew carefully self-consciously my lips sealed tight later, as we sit watching some house hunting show on PBS she feeds her dog a treat which he gobbles then sits expectantly at her feet the long pink tongue swiping for remnants He smacks his lips I say she looks at me, surprised, shakes her head tries not to laugh
Restless, Irritable, And Discontent
Mom says I didn’t have much hair until I was around two— the yellowed 70s photos prove it she says I must’ve rubbed it all off on my pillow while turning in my crib born restless, it seems from thrashing in my crib to roaming nearby woods to combing the country in search of what? a restless mouth that sought the nipple later sought the mythical bottomless bottle it wasn’t just the buzz— they call it “spirits” for a reason... we addicts are restless, irritable, and discontent bald and naked to sticks and stones always writhing in beds we never make rubbing downy hair off diaper rash souls
I’ve done a few of them, now and it’s the same every time— same as when I played in metal bands to rowdy crowds so many years ago back then it was different the world was our Facebook we’d slather the town with bright orange and green flyers hit every record store and telephone pole I’d anticipate for weeks mentally rehearsing my performance see myself tearing it up under the lights finally the night came and I’d hit the stage, trembling and couldn’t wait to get off it to head back home and shred to an empty room a true rockstar