Rich Glinnen is a market researcher by day and a writer by night. He enjoys bowling, and drinking red wine with his cats at his home in Bayside, NY. He’s currently nominated for the 2017 Best of the Net Anthology. His poesy can be read in Kenneth Warren’s Lakewood House Organ, at foliateoak.com, petrichormag.com, and richglinnen.tumblr.com. His fiancé calls him Taco.
First Dance
It looms
Like Medusa,
Riddled in
Black tulle,
Enormous at the
End of
Summer
A hanging ghoul
To pass through—
Ice already
Pricks my
Chest
Day of:
The only eyes
I see
Are the 100
Reflected
In yours—two orbs
Chocked with
Tarantulas. Let us
Combust,
God
We’ll waltz
As one in
The sanctity of
Our own private
Burn ward—
Laden
With Vicodin,
Two arched
Willows
Staggering to
Radiohead
And a
Steady
Beep.
Touch of Gray
As flurries
Cake, trees
Grow cords
Of gray
Pantless, I watch
The massive
Deadheads
Sway.
Summer Cat
The long days smear themselves like
Sunshine across my face,
Carving wrinkled canyons and
Sculpting carcinoma
I’ve endured the northeast’s
Wild winters for a peek
At glorious gold, only to
Be slapped with rash,
Serenated by disembodied voices
While napping indoors.
When I stir awake, the cats
And I blink at each other
Until our bellies
Crave crackers—
Provide objective
Dozing and eating—
I am a summer cat,
Bound to home
Never to tan.
Stray Song
Its swampy song
Clambers through my window,
Rounding both of my cats
From slumber,
Inviting them
To screw
“They’re fixed,” I inform the
Stray, bare-bellied, barely buzzed,
“There ain’t nothin’ in them”
All three are undeterred
By this—what I deemed—
Useful information. Still
They stare—a standoff.
Perhaps the vagrant hopes
A certain melody
Will regenerate
Ovaries and testes
(Not sure how the
Stray swings)
Either way, its got
A better shot
At love
Than most.
MemorBrie
Ah, cheese—
Such variant goodness,
So dear to us
We utter her
Mouth-watering
Moniker
While photos
Flash—
Glommed onto
Memories
Through lippy
Smiles.
Unmade Man
Always thought I’d be further
By now,
Had dreams of psychology
And piles of sex and boats, office
Exploding swarthy wood
Was it ever realistic, for faces
Always haunted me—
The slightest brashness
Equaled sleepless nights,
What-if-they’re-right’s,
Meaning of truth,
Hatred,
Love—
But all the kinds
Disassociated
With success.