Ron Riekki

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 the movie The Machinist.

Easy read of the poems in the images above:

Shakespeare’s sonnet 55 as a panic attack

And, yes, I’m bone, not golden, lectured
on Veterans Day to get off lawn. A pawn
alone, let off the hook. I can’t shine yet.
My contents are not content. I’m also
besmeared with sluttish time. I’m waste-
ful, but stripped. An Oh, God! Boiled
in war, but I wasn’t close enough to front
lines to be kinged. Just burned. Remember
the helicopter on fire? No? Well, that was
after the war. The obvious enemy is us.
There is nothing more triggering than
the Fourth of July. I pray for praise. When
I am alone in this room for infinity, I think
of what it was like in prison. I am nothing.

Shakespeare’s sonnet 69 as fear of exposure to herpes

My parts are thinned. Told that it can appear
anywhere. Even in the eyes? Yes, of course.
The tongue? Of course. The soul? Don’t get
off course. The asshole? My foes charge fees.
I took off my clothes for free. Mostly. I mean,
I was paid. I was owned. I liked it. I really did.
I danced with an accent. My parents can’t accept
what I’ve done. I’m . . . well, hung. It’s called
BDSM. Wrist bondage. It reminds me of when
we were Christed during military hazing. Tied
to fence. There’s elbow bondage, breast bondage,
crotch rope. I’m not sure if it’s my PTSD or BPD
or ADHD, but I just know it’s impulsivity issues.
I shower hourly now. Weed too. Pass the tissue.

Shakespeare’s sonnet 84 as a PTSD flashback

Well, Orwell, or even Kafka, seem to be me, my
pitch-dark dreams. I’m alone, again. A theme.
When I walk into a room, imagine a violin’s squeal.
I’m confined, or have been, no, am, still. Remember
in the prison when we’d stab ourselves in hopes
of getting to go the E.R., get to see nurses, but, no,
they’d keep us there, stitch us up on the spot? And
during the war, my bunkmate got bulimia. Yes,
it was gory, but I won’t fill you in on the details.
I got out, counseled survivors of torture. My life
in its entirety needs a trigger warning. I write
to heal. My essential tremors aren’t particularly
essential, in my opinion. My horror-movie body.
I’m equal, except “30% disabled.” An anathema.