Cool Poems by Sean Rima #4.

Sweat lodge.


The glowing rocks enter the clay hut,
riding delicately upon tongs of
antler bone, the steam hissing off our nude bodies,
the ancient poems sung in the soft, reverent voices of
God’s history tanned in buffalo skins and
deep red clay, and there, in the black of shadows,
in the sway of dance,
I shriek in war-cry, grapple inside my

heart, death-dealing the bitter armies

of me against myself

until I am the only one left standing, my

tattered flesh stained with the blood and sweat

of a thousand dead warriors and

then I go outside for a pee.




A temporal spatial-refraction.


Is how the Great Poetry Magazine described
the poems of The Great Poet, after a
lengthy narrative
of meeting her
in the front hall
of her renovated 19th Century schoolhouse
in upstate New York,
with its twelve-foot ceilings
and Japanese lanterns,
as The Great Poet
made tea,
and they discussed
her poetic journey from the
University of Wisconsin, Madison, to
Columbia University, to
the High School of Music and Art, to
The Great Poet’s teaching gig at
Saint Martin’s School of Art in London, to
her work as an Art Consultant in
New York City, to
her current job as a Visiting Core Critic
in Sculpture at the
Yale School of Art,

and the article spoke at length of
The Great Poet’s outsider status in the literary
world, and of her Great Rebellion
against the Status Quo,

and I sat in my shitty rented Art Room,
in my shitty rented house,
counting my cigarettes while
scanning the Help Wanted ads for the

odd job as a Visiting Core Critic

of Anything, not minding swing-shift
hours and occasional heavy-
lifting, given my employers
do not require of me to explain
what the flying fuck a

temporal spatial-refraction is.




The voices in my head.


There are moments
when my heart breaks like
a cheap wine glass under a boot,
there are moments
when I hold pity parties
in my honor,
there are moments
when I rage
at the injustice
of a weighted scale,
there are moments
when I rage,
at myself,
for no good
goddamned reason,
there are moments
when life is both too long
and too quick for me,
there are moments
when hope is a plastic
flashlight in the dark
with old, cheap batteries,
there are moments
when I am convinced
that I just don’t
there are moments
when I’ve simply had


and in these moments,
from somewhere behind
my clenched teeth
and my crying

a voice,
on the breeze
like a robin’s wing,
and it says to me:

“Stay on the good path,

one step at a time,
one mile ahead and one
behind, eyes forward with
love and gratitude in your
heart instead of an old
fool’s expectations,
and you’ll be okay,
you will prevail,

for I am with you,
every moment,
and in each step,

and you are not alone.”

I believe the voice.
I know the voice is God.

Oddly, he sounds

just like Johnny Cash.



Copyright 2017 by Sean Rima.


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