Poems by Anthony Ritchey
night return
television mother (goodnight my son)
wife bottle brother (first & last lovers)
* * *
allow me to be with you
in this box in my hand
allow me to show you my work
my life, my dreams, pathetic.
* * *
marriage, fear of solitude
alcoholism, the inevitability of failure
two of your cheapest bottles of wine
the rest of the change to this homeless man
ingrown hairs likewise problems
bursting on your done up number
only one way to get on here
get the words out
the anxiety of missing out
grey hair to prove
brown teeth to prove
flaking skin show
digging in the tray
crumpled inside the silence
cage in a cave in a bottle
fruit fly logic, in i go
the wine comes in and heads off depression
keeps it at bay for precisely ten years
third life compound fracture crisis
my father, a sober disciple
and i, his drunken yield
untitled (for bradley neil direnzi)
you have changed the name of the game
it’s true. look around you.
so many new streaks of color you have brought to the table of canvas
Immeasurable depths. Unchangeable tableau.
with each rising and setting of the sun
we find our tracks to appear different than the day before
encrusted in these colors snagged from the days and years blown through
windy existences. moving with them and aside
stumble upon the well of warm liquid love
crouched in the weeds of our cities and offices
low-flying scythes and hourglasses push us
further down into this warmth of each others arms
places to speak new tongues
ones of affinity and of these horizons
what we do for each other
a steadfast faith
indubitable knowledge that we’ll carry each other
through when arms and legs fail
that we will look out from our
glorious perches and see the otherwise invisible city of gold
crows feet wrinkles to be coveted by any man who catches your gaze
the ability to
fly
devour
set nine and twenty hearts ablaze
headstand notwithstanding
and reverse infantile revisions
until you can scale the barred wall
and drop into your den, coyly
batting at your dangling trophies, blabbering
and cawing your way
to the slumber of a superlative day.
iva (aka emo white boy)
would have been bad
for your agenda
to have a cis
like me in
your midst
good job and a job well done
under the carpet
now over one whole
year we don’t speak
she a they and
new york now
brooklyn trans capital
but wait i’m
in oakland california
where these revolutionaries
are making liberation
from supposed binary forms
boring gender
slash parentheses
lacking identity/ties
and i know trust
me i know that
i know that it’s
so fucking egotistical
to say but will
say it nonetheless
that all this bullshit
is a construct of ocd
your pan-control freak
ishness
backward meager
passive hyper aggressive
power-derivitive
(say it again with pre-curs__)
fucking bullshit
and when it all goes
down the war between
won’t have a lick to
do with post-boomer
self obsessed ally
pandering baby politic
of who is who
and what pronoun
makes you feel
dare i say
comfortable
pause
go back
what the fuck do i know
tall fellow clearly
not queer
not concerned with
the rules of word
chain or lack thereof
DREAMS OF WHITE
wake up television santa claus
murder suicide
8 year old answers the door
shot in face
“bodies burned too badly”
car explodes
ten thousand in his underwear
9 unaccounted for
4 year old
buried alive
found in vineyard
tiny legs unearthed seen
snatched from a party
sexually assaulted
four years old
buried alive
5.4 million cubic yards
cadmium, lead & dead fish downstream
clean coal dam burst
“but it’s safe to drink the water”
tennessee black eye
sales are down
sales are down
sales are down
shot in the face
buried alive
Anthony Ritchey is a worker and maker, in search of the essences and evidence of “the good old days.” Anthony lives in Portland, Oregon.
