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Sean Rima: Brand New Poems, Hot Off The Griddle!

Image by Sean Rima.


Here are some new ones for a little ol’ book I’m going to call, “Poems II: On Sunset Road”…



My daughter can kick my ass now.

My fat ass on the couch with a
glass of wine, coughing my brains
out, face turning purple, and
when it’s over,

I promise her that I will

give up the smokes,
slow down on the booze,
eat healthier, and exercise
at least once a week, and

then my daughter

looks me dead in the eye and

says those four words no
parent ever wants to hear,

“I don’t believe you,”

and in her glare,
all traces of the child she
was have been swept away,
for she is a grown-ass woman
now, calling me out on my
shit, and though it
crushed my soul
in the moment
of it,
it also

took my breath away

with pride.




A poem of solace for the middle-aged.

I did not travel
as far as I wanted
to travel, but I did


than I ever
thought I would,

and that is a

blessing from God,

like a Nirvana song,
on a Classic Hits
radio station,
on a


buying tacos

and wine.




Truth be told.

I drink wine, and
I write poems.

That is what I do.

That is what I have
always done, and,

truth be told,

if tomorrow
was my very

last day on Earth,

I pray the
Good Lord calls me
home at the precise
moment that I am

swallowing the dregs
of my last glass of
red wine as I am
writing the

last line
of the last poem
that I shall ever write,

and I don’t care

what anybody


about that.




On the shape of a bottle of tequila.

As he pulled the cork and poured
us both a shot, he explained how,
in old Mexico, tequila used
to be sold in tall
slender bottles, like
a beautiful woman’s
leg and thigh, until

Don Julio–

a maker of fine tequila–

realized that two men
could not sit across a

table from one another, with
two glasses and a bottle be-
tween them, talk about
whatever they needed
to talk about, and

look each other

in the eye,

and so, old

Don Julio started
selling his fine-ass tequila
in short, round bottles, and

as the pure genius of that
settled over me, we toasted
the future, took our shots,
and I looked into
his eyes,

and he
looked into

and though
we are both

haunted men,

I realized, in that one
perfect moment, that
God (and old Don Julio)

had sent us both an angel,

on a Saturday morning,

over a short, round

bottle of tequila.




Of oranges and squirrels.

My orange tree
is about to drop her fruit
to the lawn, her children
ripe and fat, and

I am going to let those

goddamned oranges
sit in the dry grass until
they rot and ferment
beneath the hot Summer
sun of Texas, so the

goddamned squirrels

will eat them,

and get all fucked-up,

and then I can sit
and watch the squirrels
stumble through the yard,
tumble from the trees,
and talk shit about

the grackles, and,


that will be better than
anything on goddamned
Netflix, and

the squirrels don’t

cost a dime.




Objects in mirror.

Objects in your rear-
view mirror appear closer
than they are, especially
when there’s much
less road ahead
than there is


and it is here,
in this space,

along a lonely
stretch of asphalt,

that you realize the

true gold of your life

is not the plans and
schemes you made for
World Domination, but
rather those rare,
perfect moments
you stumbled
upon, yet

remember, as if it

was yesterday, like

the first few seconds
you rolled down the street
on your Huffy bike, without
training wheels, knowing,
in your heart, that you
could do anything,

or the first time
a beautiful woman
looked you in the eyes,
and said, “I love you,” and
you melted like a soft
custard in late-July,

or the first time
you saw one of your
stupid poems in
print, or

the smell of blood
and fresh linens the day
your daughter was
born, or

that look of confusion on
your girlfriend’s pretty face,
followed by joy, at Starbucks,
as she realized you had just
proposed to her with a
haiku, and the way
your heart swelled
when you
realized that
you had just given her
a rare, perfect moment
she will never, ever

forget, yeah.

That’s the stuff of life.

Embrace the moments,
my fellow wanderers,
as they come along,
and know that

all your worry

and your strife–

are really just objects
in the rear-view mirror,
slipping away behind
you, like a truck-
stop selling
day-old brisket,

or a fireworks stand
shuttered for the
night, or

an off-ramp,

to an Applebees,

in Sussex County, Delaware.




All poems copyright 2019 by Sean Rima.

“POEMS” by Sean Rima available art this link:

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