Ryan Quinn Flanagan
—Poems and Photos by Ryan Quinn Flanagan
Eliot, Ontario, Canada
BLISTER PACK NOSTADAMUS
The moths
with eyes on their wings
are not looking
at you.
Gas
from the pumps
into a waiting tank
of wanting.
There are caves
full of glow worms
acting out the mating cycle
in miniature.
Cannibals
boiling the heads of their offspring
over a fire older than
love.
________________________
THE HIP-HOP DANCER
is white
in his late teens
with a loud ghetto blaster
when it is no longer
the fashion.
In grey sweat pants
and sunglasses.
On a blue yoga mat
outside city hall.
Spinning
on his head
like a human
drill bit
Deep into the earth
for precious metals
no one else
can see.
The moths
with eyes on their wings
are not looking
at you.
Gas
from the pumps
into a waiting tank
of wanting.
There are caves
full of glow worms
acting out the mating cycle
in miniature.
Cannibals
boiling the heads of their offspring
over a fire older than
love.
________________________
THE HIP-HOP DANCER
is white
in his late teens
with a loud ghetto blaster
when it is no longer
the fashion.
In grey sweat pants
and sunglasses.
On a blue yoga mat
outside city hall.
Spinning
on his head
like a human
drill bit
Deep into the earth
for precious metals
no one else
can see.
400 MARKET
We are at the Flea Market
in Innisfil
going from kiosk
to kiosk.
I stop at the knife dealer.
She wants to visit the fortune teller.
If we go to the fortune teller first,
she argues,
and she tells us everything will be fine
then we don’t have to get the knives.
But if we just get the knives now,
I say,
there’s no need for the fortune teller
because we have peace of mind.
The knives are on sale.
The fortune teller will likely give us a break
as well.
We have come to an impasse.
There is not enough money for both
the fortune teller
and the knives.
Outside
we find a clothing vendor from Trinidad
and settle on his-and-her t-shirts
from the discount rack
that claim we both ate the worm
when we did
not.
_______________________
CHIQUITA
At the home for the elderly
and the newly demented
a man in a wheelchair
is given a banana
in the middle of the tv room
which he kisses many
times.
Even some tongue
which makes the other residents
a little uncomfortable.
The nurses try to peel it
for him
so he can eat his first meal
in over thirty-six
hours.
But he pushes them away.
A man who knows what he wants.
Never once forgetting
to kiss his precious
banana.
WHILE THE CASHIERS DEMAND MONEY,
AND NEVER PEACE
The battlefield spilled over into
Men’s outerwear
and someone blew their nose
behind me
at two hundred kilometres an hour
and there was artillery fire
overhead
and I thought of Napoleon, feeding
his prized white horse one stale carrot
with a leafy green
head,
of vodka tall Peter, his many dentistry mishaps
with the Russian court,
myself—a conscientious objector—
taking shelter in the second fitting room
on the left
trying on a pair of brown overalls
so I could look like an anthill
and not a man
as the kid from sporting goods
with a Louisville slugger
made the
rounds.
_____________________
YOU CAN'T WEAR WORK BOOTS
IF YOU DON'T HAVE LEGS
Loggers
chop down trees
and I think
of amputation.
Of what I would do
without my legs.
Laying in bed all day
watching free cable.
While other men slave
for a pittance.
Making helpless puppy dog eyes
at all the cute nurses.
Who take turns feeding me green Jello
before my sponge bath
because they feel bad
and I should
not.
______________________
JUDGEMENT DAY WILL BE AN
OVERDUE LIBRARY BOOK YOU
CAN NEVER RETURN
Peel the eyebrows off
a Chia pet
and call it deforestation.
Water beds
like riding the open seas
with pillows.
Judgement day
will be an overdue
library book
you can never
return.
Sitting in traffic
bumper to bumper
day after day
thinking of puppy mills
full of flea collars
you can wear to funerals
and still look as if
you were
mourning.
_______________________
SHE STEALS HEARTS, HE STEALS VCRS
She’s in her early twenties, brunette,
he’s somewhat older.
In both age
and circumstance.
She steals hearts, he steals VCRs.
Both clean up pretty well.
They live in my building
the same way the garbage chute
does.
I would hardly call them friends.
Neither drink coaster-dependable.
More
like a reason
to not pick up the phone
when it is ringing
at
3 am.
A BUNSEN BURNER
how nice of you
to think of the serial
arsonist
so forgotten
this time of year,
all we need
now
is an accelerant,
a speed freak from rural Iowa
perhaps,
pacing the room
with bad skin
and socks worn through
at the heel
as crop circles
are voted into congress
and space junk
loiters in
space
and balloons replace birds
(finally)
as the last inflatable
mammal.
_______________________
BONDABLE
My father said a man must work
and I was 12
so I needed to find
a job.
So I went down to this seafood place
that wanted dishwashers
and filled out a resume.
At the bottom of the page it asked:
Are you bondable?
I thought of Roger Moore.
I thought of being tied up
and those large classroom containers
of glue
with the orange tops.
The waitress came by
saw my young puzzlement
and took pity:
it means can you handle money, darling.
I answered Yes
and left the resume
by the cash.
Then I walked home
back up Little Avenue
kicking a stone.
And the flowers spilt all their sunlight
and no one picked it up.
________________________
POPULAR KID
An only child has to get inventive
so the clouds were his friends
playing tag in the sky above
and no one ever caught anyone
and it was all very exciting
long afternoons
of watching his many friends
change shape
propped up against his favourite tree
in the park
(another dear friend)
letting the ants crawl over his knees
because that’s what friends do
for one another.
TO A GIRL WHO LONGS TO BE
A WOMAN
Let us come together
travelling at different speeds
like the two trains of grade
eleven math.
You with a husband.
Me, under a pseudonym.
The Do Not Disturb sign
on the door.
No sex.
Just running our fingers through
each other’s hair
until the sun comes
up.
Front desk
glistening nametag smiling,
housekeeping
trying not to get
deported.
Double agents
in the lobby
sharing secrets we shall
never know.
_________________________
COLD CUTS AND WARM HANDS
There was a log in the fire
and I thought of witches
at the stake
their hands bound behind their backs
like playing keep away,
of my grandfather’s gas barbecue
each summer;
a shimmering battleship grey
with many black knobs
to turn
the hotdog or hamburger
conundrum
(as if the first world has problems
too)
and soon my ears were crackling
cold cuts and warm hands—
the ears of a reluctant guest
as our host pinged his glass
and made another toast
that was boxes in the attic
forgettable.
_________________________
Welcome to the Kitchen, Ryan, and thanks for the poems and the photos of the breathtaking country in which you live! Ryan Quinn Flanagan is a paper-trained romancer of the elderly. If it is not a milk bone or an early bird dinner, than it's just not worth it. He presently resides in Elliot Lake, Ontario, Canada with an acute case of cabin fever after another long Canadian winter. He wants to see the sun again, like a dear old friend you've lost touch with. Don't be a stranger to the Kitchen table, Ryan!
_____________________
—Medusa
