Hugh Hefner
—Anonymous Photos
—Poems by Ryan Quinn Flanagan, Eliot, Ontario, Canada
HUGH HEFNER’S WOODEN LEG
She reminds me of that moment
we finally decided to skip through time zones
in that sewing machine of a rental car.
How we stayed by the beach in that place with no hot water
and I told her it said: In Case of Fire Bring Steak on the back of the door.
How she asked me if it really said that and I said no
and she said it would have been funnier if it actually did.
She points to my ring finger and reminds me we are married.
You know who wasn’t married?
Dolly the sheep.
Why not clone the Ode to Joy?
Or a Caribbean Island you can keep in your backyard
that seconds as a tax haven when the government comes sniffing around?
I would clone an army of volleyball nets to smash my balls into.
Hugh Hefner’s wooden leg.
That’s where he keeps his dick pills.
Never trust a man in his housecoat who tells you he is working at half past 3 in the afternoon.
The best illusionists are the ones that can make you forget they are there.
The girls are always there.
YES YES, the many girls!
The girls are there because the money is there.
It is simple arithmetic.
Why do you think there are so many bank tellers?
It is not a sudden admiration for hours of artificial light.
Follow the money back to the fox and you understand the blood of the hunt.
Shipping containers full of endangered animals destined to be rugs.
Conversation pieces in an age of no conversation.
Red Panda
RED PANDA
I remember
that we had to go to the Toronto Zoo
to see the red panda
because it was not like
all the other pandas
we had seen
before
and how my father balked
at the price of parking
as though the northern lights
should be in the trunk
but we had to see the red panda
that had been on the news
so that my father bit the bullet
and paid the price
and when we got there
all you saw was trees and woodchips
in the enclosure
and I remember looking back at my father,
how they told us the red panda
was rare and rather shy
so that we stared at a couple of trees
with nothing in them
before moving on
to the reptile enclosure
where anything that spits poison
has to be half-
dangerous.
Canadian Side, Niagara Falls
HUSH MONEY
We are sitting in a room full of computers.
At her college so she can have a better living.
And the way I swivel around bored in my chair beside her.
Writing obscenities on the blackboard to meet
the morning coffee crowd.
They have cameras, she says,
I have to graduate.
Tell them I am some insufferable flirt
that followed you in
and that you never saw
me before.
They will probably give you a few dollars
hush money just to keep things quiet
in the current climate.
She laughs
and asks me to just sit still
and let her print her
assignment off.
Then we drive home
in a rental car because she is
just learning to drive.
With right of way
in a red two-door
hatchback.
Almost running over some school kids
on the green
with half a dozen knapsacks
full of homework
they will never
finish.
Fairyland
CANADIANA
is a funny thing
not at all
like Americana
which knows what
it is
and confidently champions
the cracking of the bell
bride to banner,
Canadiana
simply knows it is
not Americana
and defines itself
solely by that
(by what it
is not)
without ever knowing
or even wanting to know
what that could
actually
mean.
The Intrepid Snow Plows
EASTERN EUROPE IS WESTERN
EUROPE WITH A LIMP
don’t think
I am choosing
sides,
but some bunk
in rural Estonia
is not the Ritz
no matter how
you play it
Ivy League Gorby
or silk curtains
instead of iron
when one fighter is knocked out
the referee usually calls
the fight
stops the ceremony
to the general displeasing
of the crowd,
there is a mercy rule
for a reason,
even if mercy itself
is on vacation
catching sun
and fish in
equal
measure.
Here, kitty kitty kitty...
MOUNTAIN LION
I’ve seen the pictures.
Mountain lions come to rest
on the welcome mat
by the front door.
Calling in sick
because an apex predator
is sleeping it off on your
front stoop.
That is what you get for living five minutes
from the wild.
You are not a vegetarian
and neither is anyone
else.
Sometimes the wild comes
to you.
And you are smart to stay inside.
Some cats are too big
for the litter box.
When I stand in front of mirrors
my hair seems to be going off
in all directions.
Like a confused roundabout.
And the authorities you called
will try to scare the damn thing away
before they shoot it.
My hair running off
in all directions.
COLOUR OF THE BLUES
You wanted to be on the George Jones show
if you were starting out.
Johnny Cash was a regular so he could
make his break.
Merle Haggard too.
Tammy Wynette.
I only think of this now because
of lost sobriety.
Ears big as turnstiles
that make loudspeakers out of all
the crisp dark whispers.
I find I return to things
these days.
Old records, locks of hair
hatcheted off into the waiting
basket of good grooming.
Not for reasons of nostalgia
so much as survival.
And blood,
do not forget
the blood.
The mess we make of ourselves
is sometimes the only hope
of others.
Today’s LittleNip:
IDIOT ROOSTER
—Ryan Quinn Flanagan
Hardy har
hard
can’t thank Delilah
for the coffee
filters
a flame for the fans
idiot rooster
lost to
night
just a trim
a tram
a dram
a splash
a spot
plane
my slippers
gone
missing.
_________________
Thank you, Ryan, for fine poems about such things as Hugh Hefner and red pandas and Canadiana and other colours of your world up north. (I did have some harsh words with my spell-checker about your Canadian/British spelling of “colours”.)
—Medusa
—Photo by Ryan Quinn Flanagan
(Celebrate poetry!)
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