Cool Poems by Sean Rima #3.

In a bar called Forever.

In a bar called Forever,
Rasputin, Beethoven, Howard
Hughes, Van Gogh, Walt Whitman,
and T. E. Lawrence
hang out around a cluttered table
near the back,
in the shadows,
next to the unplugged jukebox,
and as Beethoven,
Rasputin, and Vincent

get hammered off of cheap

red wine and Howard
crushes pills with a spoon,

Colonel Lawrence

offers Walt

seven pieces

of His Majesty’s gold

to beat him with a stick,
in the parking lot, after Last

Call at a minute past two a.m.




Deeply expansive thoughts on the nature
of a quantum Universe while watching
“Keeping Up With The Kardashians”.

It is my theory
that on the seventh day,
instead of resting,
God created
Kim Kardashian,
just for something to do
during the commercial breaks
of a “House, M.D.” marathon
on a lazy Sunday after-
noon, God stretched-out
on the couch with
half a pack of cigarettes,
some day-old shrimp lo mein,
and a nickel-
bag of
chronic that He picked-
up in the Springs
at a party
the night before,

and YAH-WEH said, “Let us

send them a princess
with perfect tits and an ass
like a Volkswagen, and let us

call her Kim, and her

presence in their garden shall
most certainly screw with their heads,
for they cannot accept
the reality that their Universe entire,
that all they know and all they merely
think they know, could be just

a bit of dark matter
in the spaces between
the atoms
in the wrinkles
of the nipple
of Kim’s left breast,”

and at this, the

God of Abraham laughed

out loud, as He tightened his robe

and went to the kitchen
to make a ham sandwich with
honey mustard and onions,

and grab another

beer from the fridge.




Customer Service Desk.

“Mr. Rima, based upon your
father’s prognosis, the hospital
needs to speak with you and
your mother concerning
his quality of life, is it
okay with you
if we do that now
over the phone…?”

I don’t fucking know.

“If your father were to go into
cardiac arrest, would you
want CPR to be performed?
Understand that this would
not improve his
prognosis and, more
than likely, would
diminish his
quality of life…?”

I hate your fucking guts.

“In the event that your father
is unable to take solid foods,
would you want us to
merely hydrate him through
an I.V. tube, or provide
him with forced nutrition?
Understand that providing
forced nutrition would
not improve his
prognosis and, more
than likely, would
diminish his
quality of life…?”

I want to reach through the
phone and crush your fucking
wind pipe with my
bare hands.

“In the event that your father
can no longer process his
own bodily fluids,
would you want us to
allow Nature to take its
course, or provide Dialysis,
which can cause an infection,
and would not improve his
prognosis and, more
than likely, would
diminish his
quality of life…?”

We have lost our fucking souls.

“Thank you, Mr. Rima, for
answering our questions, if
you would go to our
website and take an
easy online poll, you will
receive a twenty-percent
discount on your
next visit to
Golden Corral, plus a
free tee-shirt if you enter
the promo code…”

I hang-up, go out to my patio,
light a cigarette, pour a
glass of wine, and wonder,
silently, to no one,

if I just killed my dad.



Copyright 2017 by Sean Rima.


Check out Sean’s newest book of poems here:




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