—Poems by Ryan Quinn Flanagan, Lake Eliot, Ontario, Canada
—Anonymous Golf-Course Streaker Photos
BACK NINE
They have parked their carts by the tee.
Driving on a par four down the back nine.
Three old-timers in checkered pants.
A naked man runs onto the fairway.
A streaker shouting obscenities as he runs
in circles.
Then the streaker shoots off into the surrounding
woods and is gone.
The old timers wait a few moments to see
if the streaker returns.
After a short conversation,
they decide to play through.
____________________
SHITTING BRICKS IN THREE DIFFERENT COLOURS
The side of the house looked like
it wanted to talk.
Shitting bricks in three different colours.
A runner was sent from the Battle of Marathon
to tell the people of ancient Athens
that the Greeks had been victorious,
I said.
The distance from the battlefield at Marathon
to Athens was 26 miles,
so now you know why they call such races
marathons and why they are 26 miles.
The side of the house wanted to know
how I knew all these things.
Did I have a photographic memory?
Sort of, I said,
everything just jumps into my head
and stays there.
I was tired and didn’t feel like talking anymore.
I crawled through the window
and fell straight into bed.
Kicking my shoes to the floor
before sleeping another
one off.
16 FLOORS AND ONE BOMB THREAT
The building had to be cleared.
There were 16 floors and one bomb threat.
Traffic cordoned off.
The bomb-sniffer dogs brought in.
Everything was credible these days.
The call was traced to a payphone
nine blocks away.
The professionals dusting for prints
while the audio was enhanced downtown.
Snipers placed on adjacent rooftops.
Seizing the high ground in case of attack.
A few hundred office workers rushed
down the staircase out of harm’s way
just moments before their
lunch hour.
___________________
JAMES DEAN FESTIVAL
We are planning a trip south.
Our one-night stay in Indiana.
On the way through to better things.
All the prices have shot up.
We call a local motel in the area that we know
and find out that most everything
in the state is sold out for that weekend.
That it is the James Dean festival.
I didn’t even know that was a thing,
the wife says.
The locals need their human sacrifice rituals,
I say.
Seems we’ll have to pay a little more
to join the frenzy.
She is on the phone to another.
Trying to explain that we are not from around there
and just need a place to sleep the night.
That we are just passing through.
It doesn’t matter.
We find a place in Angola.
Only a first-class joint would look at Africa
and name itself Angola,
I say.
Out of all the possible names,
who the hell thought Angola was a good idea?
My wife downs the rest of her drink
and laughs.
At least it is brand new,
she says.
The reviews have been good.
I wonder if their sister city is just the other Angola,
I say.
No reason to make things difficult.
You know how each city has those sister cities
around the world?
She laughs
and says she does,
but doubts that Angola’s sister city
is just Angola, Indiana.
I tell her the first mosquito I see
will give her malaria.
That I have been reading up
on drug resistance in the 3rd world.
She tells me we are booked for one king
non-smoking.
I ask her if James Dean ever stayed there.
She tells me he did
and that is why we have to
pay so much.
Our second night
spent by this civil war battlefield
fifty miles from the Alabama border
that charges $15 to see the battlefield
with a guide.
A family of feral cats back at the hotel
that hiss if you get too close
to the hedge line.
THE LAST PERSON TO DANCE
The last person to dance was gyrating
and generally happy.
With all her girls like strength in numbers.
Just back from the bathroom and ovulating.
The music of the age so awful the doorman
stood outside so he wouldn’t have to hear it.
And a night’s drink was half-a-week’s wages.
The bartender with the baby face living on tips.
Collecting numbers when the flash came.
Survival is an adamant beast.
The few become the many until
the many desire a return to the few.
Its historical forgetfulness.
Cold calls to the afterlife.
You cannot kill me.
I’ve started dancing without music
and now I am the last person
to dance.
On dusty floorboards
that used to be someone’s kitchen.
From memory.
The water long gone
and most of the humanity
too.
SKIMP
Don’t skimp
or others will think
you a liquidation sale
with silent partners
from the city,
that promises can be found
at the landfill
foraging for stinky bears
not above the common
dumpster dive,
some squirrely axel-grease doorman
with a glass eye
like jarred preserves with
17-inch arms,
the boat launch down the highway
full of old fisherman making jokes
about lures that resemble
their wives.
___________________
IDEAS
I would hate to not have ideas.
The mind like a stopwatch someone had
decided was finished some unnameable
fleet-footed race.
The winners congratulated
and the losers were just
the losers.
Walking back
across the infield
with hands on
shoulders.
Head lowered
like honouring the dead
of some stupid war.
A CHALLENGE TO YOU AND NO ONE ELSE
Push push
push
don’t wait for
an invitation
use the resources at hand
until old ideas push
back
your mind is the greatest resource
of all,
they can do nothing about
that
do not allow it to be corrupted
by power and patronage,
they will try
if you cannot be brought under their umbrella
you will feel the rains
push push
push
beyond all hardship
no matter what it takes
with a singular belief
and a singular Self
that is the only way
forward.
_________________
Today’s LittleNip:
HOT POWDER
—Ryan Quinn Flanagan
Miss Jalaya packs a suitcase
for you
lay hot powder at your door
the distant night is
barking
the locals
have already picked
out a tree
lay hot powder for the bloodhounds
head North
Miss Jalaya’s oil lamp
goes dark
just the whispers of night things
beyond bother.
____________________
—Medusa, with thanks to Robert Flanagan, all the way from from Ontario, for his lively poems and vivid images!
Photos in this column can be enlarged by
clicking on them once, then clicking on the x
in the top right corner to come back to Medusa.
