Poetry by Ron Riekki

      Emma K Alexandra CC




When I go to the V.A, I get the feeling they hate me

and I said that
to my brother
and my brother
said, nah, they
don’t hate you,
man, except my
brother’s never
been there, ‘cause
he’s not a vet, and
he won’t ever be
there, because he’s
dead now, because
death keeps on
happening, and my
Grandma warned me
saying one time that
she had outlived all
her friends and I
thought that was
so sad and she said
it was better than
the alternative, and
my Grandpa was
a vet and lost his
hearing in the mines
and lost his index
finger in the mines
and lost his life in
the mines and he
survived a World
War and he could
not survive the god-
damn mines, but
I never had to go
into the mines,
thank God, but I
had to go into
the war and on
the day you get
out of the military
they hand you
your PTSD and
tell you, Here,
go back to your
poverty home-
town and deal
with that now,
and so I deal
with that by
going to my
PTSD counselor
who yawns when
I talk about death
and the front desk
workers look like
they hate my soul
and I started to
wonder why, and
I think it’s just that
they’re sick of us
and sick of war
stories and sick
of sickness and
sick of Memorial
Day and of Moms
who come in
crying and sick
of all of the hope-
lessness and home-
lessness and how
incredibly and
intensely home-
less so many of
us vets are, and
this neuroscience
lecture I listened
to where they said
that the homeless
trigger the insula,
this part of the brain
that triggers disgust,
and the lecturer
discussed that for
an hour or so and I
fell asleep and woke
up and went to my
session at the V.A.
and the therapist
yawned and the front
desk worker looked
pissed off as usual
and the security guard
up front has his big
night-colored gun
on his hip that’s ready
to kill us, if needed.

​



A girl

told me
she couldn’t date me
any more,
because she wanted
to be degraded
and humiliated
and fucked relentlessly,
quote-unquote,
and she said I wasn’t
Dom enough, and
I said, But I love you,
And she said, I know
you do, but it’s not
what I need, and she
is so beautiful and
brilliant and funny
and lost and beautiful
and she blocked me
and I remember
laughing with her
where it felt like
one day we were
going to be married
and I am such a Walter
Mitty, where I go
to this empty basketball
court near the cemetery
where I live, one that
nobody goes to because
it’s right next to a grave-
yard and I pretend I’m in
the NBA championships
and I forget every war
that has ever happened
and the fans come out
in the end when we win
and they hug me and
the tombstones look on
and the fans are just
ghosts, but I don’t care,
at least I’m being touched.

​

​
 Ron Riekki has been awarded a 2014 Michigan Notable Book, 2015 The Best Small Fictions, 2016 Shenandoah Fiction Prize, 2016 IPPY Award, 2019 Red Rock Film Fest Award, 2019 Best of the Net finalist, 2019 Très Court International Film Festival Audience Award and Grand Prix, 2020 Dracula Film Festival Vladutz Trophy, 2020 Rhysling Anthology inclusion, and 2022 Pushcart Prize.  Right now, Riekki's listening to Elliott Smith's "Angeles."