The Binary Thinking of the Progressive [U]nivers[i][ty]
Do the suicidal lean towards poetry or does poetry make one pregnant?
The man next to me is talking loudly about bones.
The I.T. department is impassioned, legally [sic].
I’m a fan of fangs. I almost wrote gangs. There’s a big splinter in my weapon.
Ratatat is a paradise. At least in the south. The girl in my class makes racist fog.
My girl is so sick that he bleeds revenge-prayer.
[. . .] Swoon is a Belgian. He’s also an addict. He dreams about vagues.
Forget borders. Precarious life. I grew up in a liminal state.
I’m an auditorium. Lord of the Ringu. Taste full cast and crew here.
I Explode All of My Favors, All of My Failures in 20 Lines, a Horror Sonnet
Getting caught plyboarding I don’t want to think about declaratives in the military I forwarded a message to the wrong—oh, vinegar, I solder people—we zoom, it’s a well-lit zoom, a lucky zoom. The last-girl is going to die in this gleam, this teetering gleam, this restless feeling of wishing you could connect, collect connection, assemble, resemble, bears, beards, bards. We don’t see the long haul. We are humbled. We are manners. Hammered. Please God, I don’t want to die in a corridor. I once wrote a screenplay that scared me so badly I couldn’t finish it. It was about a man entering rooms and each room got smaller and smaller and smaller until he was in a box so tight and dark with only a little pinpoint of light that showed the entire world outside where birds were stereoscopically dive-bombing to ecstasy. Tell my patients that I love them. There is a photo of me where I look like a ghost is halfway to stepping out of my sky. This is for you, famous French Countesses. I saw the helicopter guy from Apocalypse Now die in real life on a helicopter. You think I’m making all of this up. You think I’m making it heavenly. There is so much truth that I’m a scarecrow. A frightencrow. A saddencrow. An escrow. You can hear the hissing. In grade school, they called me Rikki-Tikki-Tavi. I thought I’d grow up to be a valiant mongoose. Or at least an oie. I grew up to be a runoilija. I run, a Ouija board, a man wanting to be a shaman wanting to hear an amen wanting my hamartia to go away before it harms the pharmacy. I need bodies. I want to pee. This house is not haunted. There is no horror mirror here. No territory where people are sliced whole, cut to unity, fed to God.
R. Ahimsa Riekki’s non-fiction, fiction, and poetry have been published in River Teeth, Spillway, New Ohio Review, Shenandoah, Canary, Bellevue Literary Review, Prairie Schooner, New Orleans Review, Little Patuxent Review, Wigleaf, and many other literary journals.