The Glass Cheeks of Heaven

—Poems by Ryan Quinn Flanagan, Eliot Lake, Ontario, Canada
—Anonymous Window Photos

BROKEN LIKE A SOCIAL CONTRACT,
LONG AGO

Crusted arms
of pit-stain yellow
reach down into my dismembered soul
of fractured days
and play with the pieces
like Curiosity
with a
puzzle.

I wish there were a reason
I find myself Fetal once again
on a blow-up mattress
with a leak
at eleven in the morning
thinking of nothing
but mercy
and the
guillotine.

As the dog
barks at the mailman
and my busted gut 
breaks out in hives
and Rousseau
walks the streets of Paris
in drag

so Tyranny
can say
I told you
so.
 

SANDS OF ARABIA

The sands of Arabia
are not as close
as they used to be.

When toes through sandbox
afternoons
thought of far-off sifted lands
and anything
that could be played
or imagined  

before you were called in
to dinner.

________________

EXTENDED WARRANTY

Nothing lasts
anymore.

When I was kid
a broken shoelace could last
for years
if you knew how to make the most
of what you had.

I was never allowed to waste
anything.

Dinner was a lesson
in frugality
and old socks were just
a little less
new.

As for shoelaces,
they always seemed to snap
at the most inopportune
of times,
but I knew the tricks
so it didn’t
matter.

I would tuck the first large piece
that broke away
into a conch shell on my dresser
and move down a loop
to the next hole.
When that part snapped
I would move to the next
until I reached the third hole from the bottom
and the heel of the shoe
slipped off
when I walked.
I would then gather the first broken piece
of shoelace
from the conch shell
and knot it back together
with what
was left.

By the time it snapped
for good,
I was a few years older
and my foot size was large enough
to warrant a new pair
of shoes.

Though we saved the material
from each outgoing pair
to provide patches for pants
that were tearing
just as fast.

Poverty
is a lesson
everyone should
learn.

DRUNK AND PHILOSOPHICAL
AT 4:09 am

The first twenty years
are all about
remembering.

The last twenty
are all
forgetting.

For a few years
in the middle
most of us
can do

neither.

_________________

ON THE MOVE

You should always feel like something
is at stake
or you may as well
be dead.

Sharks
with nothing to swim
against
are fishermen’s trophies
strung up
for the camera

in 1950s
black and white.

Perpetual motion
is the only way to ensure
you are never that
which came
before.

Your parents
or Pol Pot
or spinning Jennys
in predictable circles.

HAIR RELOCATION PLAN

The hair relocation plan
seems to be going off
without a hitch.

As I get older,
the hair that once graced my head
has moved
to my back
nose
and ears.
   
Makes you wonder why hair doesn’t just
start out there
at birth
and save us all a lot of time
and trouble.

__________________

GRAND, LIKE THE PIANO (2)

Buddy Holly
and the crickets
on my front lawn.

Elvis
over the toilet
with pants down around
his blue suede
shoes.

Johnny Cash
in a prison
of his own design

as the Tennessee two
help Roy Orbison
cry into my
pillows

and Jerry Lee
tickles the ivory
of the elephants of
Madagascar. 

 IN THE SHUTTLE BACK

from the concert
we met a couple that had lived
in San Diego
for the last twelve years:

him with a careful hipster beard
that could have been trimmed by pelicans
in passing

she with a voice so mousy
I thought about wheels
of cheese.

IL DUCE

Everyone
liked
him.

He was the type of guy who ate regularly,
farted seldom
and often fought with
the garden hose.

When he died,
there was a large
turnout.

Mostly
in black,
like whenever
Mussolini
spoke.

HUMPBACK

Drawn
and quartered
and late for work,
most never question why they
are in such a hurry
to die.

As the beach towels
flounder like whales
and morning traffic comes
to a standstill
and the window washer
seventeen floors up
cleans bird shit
off the glass cheeks
of heaven.

___________________

Today’s LittleNip:

ISLANDS
—Ryan Quinn Flanagan

She says she wants a kitchen
with an island
and I do
the best I
can.

Bringing her home
St. Lucia
when I know
her heart is set
on Japan.

___________________

Welcome back to Ryan Quinn Flanagan, a Canadian-born author residing in Elliot Lake, Ontario, Canada, with his wife and many bears that rifle through his garbage. His work can be found both in print and online in such places as: Evergreen Review, The New York Quarterly, Medusa's Kitchen, Setu, Red Fez, and The Oklahoma Review.


—Medusa

 "The Sands of Arabia are not as close as they used to be…"
—Anonymous Illustration
(Celebrate poetry!)

Photos in this column can be enlarged by
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