—Poetry by Ryan Quinn Flanagan, Eliot Lake,
Ontario, Canada
—Illustrations Courtesy of Public Domain
EATING THE GORGON
She asks me how dinner is
and I tell her I am eating the Gorgon.
I hardly think a little Gorgonzola cheese
with dinner means that!
she scoffs.
But I am adamant.
THE CHEESE OF THE GORGON!
I stand up and scream.
Kicking my feet together
and making some dumb
Uncle Sam salute.
Can’t we just watch the movie?
she asks.
I rush to cover her eyes.
If you look upon it, you will turn to stone!
Guess I’ll have to take my chances,
she pulls away.
Just don’t take mine,
I demand.
Those are all the chances I have!
The way she rolls her eyes,
I can tell she is turning to stone.
That I will have to build a rock garden
to keep her.
She asks me how dinner is
and I tell her I am eating the Gorgon.
I hardly think a little Gorgonzola cheese
with dinner means that!
she scoffs.
But I am adamant.
THE CHEESE OF THE GORGON!
I stand up and scream.
Kicking my feet together
and making some dumb
Uncle Sam salute.
Can’t we just watch the movie?
she asks.
I rush to cover her eyes.
If you look upon it, you will turn to stone!
Guess I’ll have to take my chances,
she pulls away.
Just don’t take mine,
I demand.
Those are all the chances I have!
The way she rolls her eyes,
I can tell she is turning to stone.
That I will have to build a rock garden
to keep her.
CAT LADY HANDS
A scratcher and a matcher,
these ugly mitts out on public display;
cat lady hands doing a shopping,
ravaged and ungloved,
fresh open areas and many tears in the flesh
in various states of healing—
later, emptying her basket onto the
conveyor belt in front of me in line;
the cashier’s hands are even worse—
they share a knowing laugh
while I fight with a broken wheel
on my cart that refuses to turn
when it should.
A scratcher and a matcher,
these ugly mitts out on public display;
cat lady hands doing a shopping,
ravaged and ungloved,
fresh open areas and many tears in the flesh
in various states of healing—
later, emptying her basket onto the
conveyor belt in front of me in line;
the cashier’s hands are even worse—
they share a knowing laugh
while I fight with a broken wheel
on my cart that refuses to turn
when it should.
THE FIRST ONES IN THE FAMILY TO GET A REMOTE
Technology never comes to everyone equally
at the same time.
And my Aunt Marilyn and Uncle Bryan
were the first ones in the family
to get a remote.
Nieces and nephews they hadn’t seen in forever
showed up under false pretenses
to point it at their television.
Cousins taking turns changing the channels.
Adjusting the volume at a distance.
So many buttons,
no one really knew where
to start.
Each trying to act more knowing
than the last.
Never staying on a single station for long.
All those buttons to push.
It was far too exciting to stay where you were.
Colour and contrast.
The modern world was on the move again.
I was too young to get my turn
at the remote,
but I watched them fight for their turn
at the helm.
Just as amazed as everyone else.
That you didn’t even need to get up.
At how everyone had become a god
seemingly overnight.
Technology never comes to everyone equally
at the same time.
And my Aunt Marilyn and Uncle Bryan
were the first ones in the family
to get a remote.
Nieces and nephews they hadn’t seen in forever
showed up under false pretenses
to point it at their television.
Cousins taking turns changing the channels.
Adjusting the volume at a distance.
So many buttons,
no one really knew where
to start.
Each trying to act more knowing
than the last.
Never staying on a single station for long.
All those buttons to push.
It was far too exciting to stay where you were.
Colour and contrast.
The modern world was on the move again.
I was too young to get my turn
at the remote,
but I watched them fight for their turn
at the helm.
Just as amazed as everyone else.
That you didn’t even need to get up.
At how everyone had become a god
seemingly overnight.
HAIRY CRABS FOR MAYOR
We are driving back
from a shopping down
in Sudbury.
Crawling through Webbwood
to satisfy the law.
It is election season
and we are reading all the signs.
One stands out
above all the others.
Harold “Bucky” Crabs
for Mayor,
the sign reads.
So, Harry Crabs for Mayor?
I ask.
Or Hairy Crabs!
my wife laughs.
That’s what people will read,
I say.
You are so writing about this!
my wife laughs.
It writes itself.
All I have to do is see it.
So, do you think the people will vote
for Hairy Crabs?
my wife makes herself snort
with hilarity.
Only if they know “Bucky,”
I say in my best straw-chewing deadpan.
Staring straight ahead.
Past another thick juicy bug
that has ate it against the
unforgiving windshield.
We are driving back
from a shopping down
in Sudbury.
Crawling through Webbwood
to satisfy the law.
It is election season
and we are reading all the signs.
One stands out
above all the others.
Harold “Bucky” Crabs
for Mayor,
the sign reads.
So, Harry Crabs for Mayor?
I ask.
Or Hairy Crabs!
my wife laughs.
That’s what people will read,
I say.
You are so writing about this!
my wife laughs.
It writes itself.
All I have to do is see it.
So, do you think the people will vote
for Hairy Crabs?
my wife makes herself snort
with hilarity.
Only if they know “Bucky,”
I say in my best straw-chewing deadpan.
Staring straight ahead.
Past another thick juicy bug
that has ate it against the
unforgiving windshield.
BUG EYES
I see this slight woman across the street
walk through a swarm of bugs
and start waving wildly.
BUG EYES!
I see this slight woman across the street
walk through a swarm of bugs
and start waving wildly.
BUG EYES!
she screams.
I am pretty sure she means that bugs
had flown in her eyes,
but I think of this girl I knew
back in grade school.
With eyes that looked as though
they were muggers in the bush,
always planning to jump you.
Eyes that leapt right out of her
snotty little face like angry bloodshot gymnasts
trying to stick the landing.
I am pretty sure she means that bugs
had flown in her eyes,
but I think of this girl I knew
back in grade school.
With eyes that looked as though
they were muggers in the bush,
always planning to jump you.
Eyes that leapt right out of her
snotty little face like angry bloodshot gymnasts
trying to stick the landing.
ROTTEN BEETS
Good thing I didn’t eat those beets from
my mother! she says.
The jars never sealed properly
and the beets went rotten.
I ask her why she hasn’t thrown them out
and she says she wants to do something
with the jars.
I want to ask her if she can do something about
her mother,
but I know I’d never hear the end of it.
I’m sure I can find something crafty to do
with the jars,
she says.
I just have to empty them close
to garbage day.
Maybe you can just leave the beets in the jar
and label it: Beets by Dre.
Rotten Beets by Dre!
she corrects me.
It’s amazing
how often she is right.
If only she had become a meteorologist,
we’d all be dressed for the weather.
Good thing I didn’t eat those beets from
my mother! she says.
The jars never sealed properly
and the beets went rotten.
I ask her why she hasn’t thrown them out
and she says she wants to do something
with the jars.
I want to ask her if she can do something about
her mother,
but I know I’d never hear the end of it.
I’m sure I can find something crafty to do
with the jars,
she says.
I just have to empty them close
to garbage day.
Maybe you can just leave the beets in the jar
and label it: Beets by Dre.
Rotten Beets by Dre!
she corrects me.
It’s amazing
how often she is right.
If only she had become a meteorologist,
we’d all be dressed for the weather.
THE SUER
kept buying products
she thought could
hurt her
so she could sue
and strike it rich
which may seem morbid
to you, but a lot of research
went into this, I assure you;
the most lenient states
and provinces
with the least oversight
and largest payouts
after the lawyers
took their part
of the settlement;
all laid out on a 16-page
spreadsheet saved
on a single red diskette
labelled: New Opportunities.
kept buying products
she thought could
hurt her
so she could sue
and strike it rich
which may seem morbid
to you, but a lot of research
went into this, I assure you;
the most lenient states
and provinces
with the least oversight
and largest payouts
after the lawyers
took their part
of the settlement;
all laid out on a 16-page
spreadsheet saved
on a single red diskette
labelled: New Opportunities.
YOU JUST KNOW THEY HAD TO SIGN IT
All those ancient megalithic sites
and no one seems to know who
constructed them;
Man is pretty much the same through time,
at its core I mean:
you just know they had to sign it,
I think to myself;
let you know they were there
and that this is their work—
the signature may be in some unknown
text, but I would put money on the Mullahs
that it’s there.
All those ancient megalithic sites
and no one seems to know who
constructed them;
Man is pretty much the same through time,
at its core I mean:
you just know they had to sign it,
I think to myself;
let you know they were there
and that this is their work—
the signature may be in some unknown
text, but I would put money on the Mullahs
that it’s there.
MONEY DOESN’T GROW ON DOLLAR TREES
The second time I ate a faulty bear trap for
lunch,
I was ovulating.
Someone in a passing car called me chicken
and they weren’t wrong.
This was my plane on drugs.
Slamming into grunting bench press buildings
with vomit for elevators.
And a penny saved is a witch unburned.
Money doesn’t grow on Dollar Trees,
just ask morning sickness.
WHO’S THE FATHER?
WHO’S THE FATHER?
Wouldn’t you like to know.
___________________
Today’s LittleNip:
DEATH TRAP
—Ryan Quinn Flanagan
She woke up
like a Congolese numb nuts,
put the mirror under
his nose.
He was still breathing.
She seemed disappointed.
Rolling over in the hollyhock
of her bounty
before going back
to sleep.
___________________
Welcome back to the Kitchen to Ryan Quinn Flanagan, who is writing to us all the way from snowy Ontario! Westley Heine’s review of Ryan’s new book, Kiss the Heathens, begins “Ryan Quinn Flanagan is a twisted bastard and I love it.” I concur. Get your copy at https://www.magicaljeep.com/product/kiss/112/.
This afternoon, Sacramento Poetry Alliance presents Alice Pettway and Lara Gularte plus open mic, Sacramento, 4pm. (Both of them will read tomorrow in Camino.) This evening, Seven Stars Gallery in Nevada City features William O’Daly and Louis Valentine Johnson with new poems and musical pieces, 7pm. Click UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS at the top of this column for details about these and other future poetry events in the NorCal area—and keep an eye on this link and on the Kitchen for happenings that might pop up during the week.
_____________________
—Medusa
The second time I ate a faulty bear trap for
lunch,
I was ovulating.
Someone in a passing car called me chicken
and they weren’t wrong.
This was my plane on drugs.
Slamming into grunting bench press buildings
with vomit for elevators.
And a penny saved is a witch unburned.
Money doesn’t grow on Dollar Trees,
just ask morning sickness.
WHO’S THE FATHER?
WHO’S THE FATHER?
Wouldn’t you like to know.
___________________
Today’s LittleNip:
DEATH TRAP
—Ryan Quinn Flanagan
She woke up
like a Congolese numb nuts,
put the mirror under
his nose.
He was still breathing.
She seemed disappointed.
Rolling over in the hollyhock
of her bounty
before going back
to sleep.
___________________
Welcome back to the Kitchen to Ryan Quinn Flanagan, who is writing to us all the way from snowy Ontario! Westley Heine’s review of Ryan’s new book, Kiss the Heathens, begins “Ryan Quinn Flanagan is a twisted bastard and I love it.” I concur. Get your copy at https://www.magicaljeep.com/product/kiss/112/.
This afternoon, Sacramento Poetry Alliance presents Alice Pettway and Lara Gularte plus open mic, Sacramento, 4pm. (Both of them will read tomorrow in Camino.) This evening, Seven Stars Gallery in Nevada City features William O’Daly and Louis Valentine Johnson with new poems and musical pieces, 7pm. Click UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS at the top of this column for details about these and other future poetry events in the NorCal area—and keep an eye on this link and on the Kitchen for happenings that might pop up during the week.
_____________________
—Medusa
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.
Would you like to be a SnakePal?
All you have to do is send poetry and/or
photos and artwork to
kathykieth@hotmail.com. We post
work from all over the world—including
that which was previously published—
and collaborations are welcome.
Just remember:
the snakes of Medusa are always hungry—
for poetry, of course!
clicking on them once, then clicking on the x
in the top right corner to come back to Medusa.
Would you like to be a SnakePal?
All you have to do is send poetry and/or
photos and artwork to
kathykieth@hotmail.com. We post
work from all over the world—including
that which was previously published—
and collaborations are welcome.
Just remember:
the snakes of Medusa are always hungry—
for poetry, of course!
