ditch,

the poetry that matters

R.A. Riekki

R.A. Riekki has poems and fiction forthcoming or recently published in Loch Raven Review, Emprise Review, Haiku Ramblings, Flutter Poetry Journal, Tower Journal, Salit Magazine, Fossil Record, Word Slaw, and The Smoking Poet.  He has a B.S. from Central Michigan University (where he cross-registered at l'Universite du Quebec a Chicoutimi) and a Ph.D. in Literature & Creative Writing from Western Michigan University (where he cross-registered at l'Universite du Quebec a Chicoutimi and Charles University in Prague).
His novel U.P., set in Ishpeming and Negaunee, was Ghost Road Press's bestselling novel for 35 weeks and has been one of their top ten bestselling books for 67 weeks and counting, 
http://www.amazon.com/u-p-R-Riekki/dp/0979625564

            NON-

I was thirsty.
My friend did not say she is all she wants.
Canada, after all, it is me and it is you who are not perfect or of this world.
Love songs are not on the radio.
There is not a breeze over the strings.
My juice is not spent.
He does not look almost like an angel when he runs across the field.
I do not meditate.
I thirst.
 
 
 
            MATTHEW 7:22
 
It plays itself.  Sacred journey.  Credit card--$34.02.
Let go of God.  It’s different.  We never had flesh.
See the pyramids.  I think I’ll name it.  Selfish
and self-centered.  That ex-cop in my class is driving
me nuts.  White clouds.  I’m not alone.  She’s married.
The dishonesty.  We never had flesh.  Sun.  You belong.
The lightning is full of air  The end of silence is
this rain.  We never had flesh.  I always wanted to tell you
that the cedar trees this evening, they remind me of wheat.
And one of these nights soon, I’m going to pray
for Humpty Dumpty.  No substitute.  Half-drunk.
We’ll kill him.  With love.  A break.  I liked.
 
 
 
            “I DON’T LIKE THE FACT THAT HE DRANK HIMSELF TO DEATH”
 
the reason I don’t bother with the future is that I hate to bend down
my soul vomits and other disasters the buzzing named mary came down
 
and explained to the old folks home about the grim cherished feelings
in bed oysters oysters oysters oysters like pavement and looking down
 
i see what’s come true is that the race is passed that mary is phnom penh
that friends are THIS MOMENT and empty hopeless reasons drown
 
 
 
            I WISH MY WIFE WAS SYLVIA PLATH
 
We’d crash.
Permafrost.
 
This lovely sound
of ovens and Nazis.
 
1963.
1969.
 
In photos
she looks like
 
a powerful
snorer.
 
We’d crash.
Live in Flint.
 
Sleep.
Die.
 
 
 
            THE PARAMEDIC TELLS US HIS FAVORITE STORIES
 
Behavioral emergencies.  They top the list.  A crush of snow.  Delusion.
Faces in the mind.  Immovable suns.  I forget the drug they’d autoinject.
It sedates.  Like New York.
 
                                                Human nature.  Is nitroglycerin.  Hypo-
glycemia.  Glaciers.  Oil spills.  Montréal dogs.  You won’t see anyone today
or ever again.

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