Vanity Plates
The pretty boy in cheap blazer
just back from the bathroom,
parts his hair to the left
with Herculean effort
and gets lost in his own reflection.
While the ceiling fan
looks down on the world
and I follow two girls
with hand held mirrors
and little else
out into a parking lot
full of vanity plates
and power steering:
K8 4 EVR
UNCL TOM
#1 MOM
DIVA 22
LOADED
SUPR GRL
BIG DOG
THE MAN...
The sun is self-absorbed.
The summer birds are preening.
Even the freshly paved asphalt
cannot stop admiring
itself.
- Ryan Quinn Flanagan
(featured in the poetry forum 10.13.11)
editor's note: You gotta be impressed with yourself, even if no else is. NOPLT4ME.
Best Actress
in a Supporting Role
She's crying
in the parking lot
outside the Movie Time,
and I wonder if she is just practising
for the tear jerker she has rented
for tonight,
starring Hollywood's finest,
which is not saying
much.
- Ryan Quinn Flanagan
(added 10.13.11)
The First One into Space is Often the Last to Say Please
Addition and subtraction
could never prepare me for the ovens
of the world.
Black and white
is how Bogart picked up girls
with screenwriters' lines
piano side,
while Elvis swivelled his Graceland hips
and Eisenhower spied on the Russians.
The first one into space
is often the last to say:
please.
Ever since kindergarten
I've been trying for maternity leave.
- Ryan Quinn Flanagan
(featured in the poetry forum 08.06.11)
Have You Seen the Fireworks in Singapore?
Things are happening
in Nagoya, Japan
I know it.
Have you seen the fireworks
in Singapore;
the size of the sausage
in Bavaria?
I throw a cherry bomb
down my own toilet
and call the front
desk.
When the cops arrive
I get to give a general description
of the assailant.
I make it look
just like me
and see if they're
smart enough
to figure it
out.
- Ryan Quinn Flanagan
(added 08.06.11)
Compulsion
I have no idea why,
but each night I get drunk
I feel the need to go out
and roam the streets.
This is something I have done
for years,
only now I carry less weapons
and more quarters.
I dial local calls at random
on the payphone a few blocks away
and recite the poems I have just written
to the stranger on the other end.
I usually only get a few words in
before dial tone loneliness
returns
and I begin dialling at random
again.
When I am out of quarters
I walk in a single direction
until I tire of it
and then begin heading in another.
One night I traversed half the city
and would have taken the morning bus back home
but I was out of quarters.
I have no idea why I do
what I do;
only that I must.
I feel compelled
to roam the streets each night.
In much the same way
man eating tigers
alter their diet
without warning
and expressions never leave
the face.
- Ryan Quinn Flanagan
(featured in the poetry forum 01.22.11)
Metamorphosis Rex
Everything must change;
true enough,
but not frivolously so.
Not just for the sake of change.
The tree does not grow bored
with treedom
and turn into a pound cake
while the water can
and a ukulele
switch places
on a dare.
Everything is in the process of becoming.
Hell, even Ovid
and the caterpillar
know this.
Evolving
devolving
living
dying,
whatever the case
may be,
everything this side of immortality
must change,
but not just for the sake
of change.
Sometimes I’ll wear the same clothes
for a week
or more
just to prove what I’m saying.
Sometimes I’ll do it for no reason
at all.
- Ryan Quinn Flanagan
(featured in the poetry forum 11.27.10)
The Exploding Chair
The dinner guests had
nothing bad to say
about the food
and drink
and congenial conversation
of an ever gracious host,
but the exploding chair
in the corner
was a little unsettling.
One woman screamed,
another choked on a broccoli
head,
most everyone else sat in uneasy silence
wondering if the exploding chair
in the corner
and the chair they now sat upon
had come as a
set.
Don’t worry, it always does that,
said the gracious host
with a casual raise of the glass
I will rebuild it again tomorrow
good as new
and set it out in the garage
where it can explode all it
wants to
in the company
of my imploding
car.
- Ryan Quinn Flanagan
(added 08.16.10)
306 Lorraine
Sorry
Mr. Bailey
but your bra strap
got in the way
of my Reformation
eyes
and now I can’t go
five minutes
without mother’s mascara
and raindrops upon the slanting
summer shingles
the paid professional
installed
just last week
as the boys on their bikes
did pop-o-wheelies with skinned knee bravado,
the girls in the street
ran absent-minded
through a wilted patch of forget-me-nots,
and I confessed to a rowboat
in sink the Bismarck
dry dock
for the first time
that I used to bake beans
in my maternal grandmother’s
torn pantyhose
and gaudy brass
rings
and haven’t had a dream
since the good reverend
in a Memphis motel
packed his ideals away
with his toothbrush
in an overnight bag
made of lead
and checked out
unexpectedly.
- Ryan Quinn Flanagan
(added 08.16.10)
OCD
If you can multiply
the number of all-you-can-eat buffets
by the number of hands
you have shaken
by the first kisses with tongue
by the number of one night stands
it should come as quite
a surprise
that you are still
alive.
Consider your run of the mill germs
and all the mutated diseases
that dominate the nightly news
and you should not be surprised
that vaccinations
have overtaken
Viagra
in over the counter
demands.
You're only as clean
as your dirtiest member
and 30 cent whores
with a purse full of mouthwash
are not reassuring.
I tend to lather
and rinse
at least twenty times
before I feel comfortable
in my surroundings.
Sometimes the skin breaks
and bleeds with effort
and then
I have to begin
all over again.
- Ryan Quinn Flanagan
(featured in the poetry forum 06.02.10)
Kerouac
Old Jackie used to spend a long time
getting ready.
He could not escape the athlete in him
and felt the need to warm up
and replenish his body
before his next speed induced
writing marathon.
Old Jackie would sleep for days
on end
and eat healthy
and drink mineral water
until the colour returned to his skin,
and then
he would sit down to the typer
and make the switch.
No sleep
no food
no water
(mineral or otherwise);
nothing but black coffee
and bennies
for the next 24-36 hours.
And those words,
oh yes,
those old America honeysuckle riptide
warble raving
words.
- Ryan Quinn Flanagan
(added 06.02.10)
Cross Dressing with Heidegger
Don't tell me you have nothing
to wear.
With all the socks,
shirts,
pants,
dresses,
shoes,
dainties,
accessories,
and other
fashion accoutrement
out there
I'm sure we can find you'
something.
Maybe a green cocktail dress
to bring out your eyes
or something slimming
and fun
to go with this pink fedora
I just know you'd love
as I pull up
my pantyhose
put on some strapless heels
and help Heidegger
with his hair
and makeup.
- Ryan Quinn Flanagan
(added 06.02.10)
Dearest Providence
dearest providence
like a bloody nose
dearest providence that no one knows
coat hanger at a cocktail party
propping up the mink like a protean mute
dearest providence
Braille cemeteries applaud you
dearest providence
like a limp cock shower
dearest providence by the hour
beyond the genesis of revelations
you fire your sad carnival
dearest providence
in my bed
dearest providence
my quiet cameo friend
off camera extra of out take obituaries
with glib self-assurance the flesh cogs race
dearest providence
of scaly-armed knowledge
what romance is there left to expound from the excreting legions?
what moments to determine?
Rusted tongue alazon I can't find your wares
Bergon-Belserina too dusty to dance
varicose rivers that part at the knee
blue-lipped helmsman without a maiden to voyage
and what about the prayers?
the moist towel seminaries?
what about the Sisters of Providence that kneel across the street?
the flag toting journeyman of lonely cinders?
where is the salvation?
meaningful palpitation?
just look the tears that spill for you.
dearest providence
with one eyed closed
a muzzle against the flesh
and still I don't know.
- Ryan Quinn Flanagan
(featured in the poetry forum 05.01.10)
The Unofficial History of Fast Food
The witches of Salem
were flame broiled
on a sesame seed
bun
while you went through the drive-thru
demanding extras packets
of ketchup.
The citizens of Dresden were
deep fried
alive
and I won't tell you
of the unspeakable horrors
that went into making
the gravy.
The bathrooms are clean
and the condiments
restocked
and no one would be the wiser
if I wasn't here
telling you this
right now.
- Ryan Quinn Flanagan
(featured in the poetry forum 02.10.10)
Rudolf Hess Lives Down by Market Square
A girl I went with for a time
in Victoria
was into anything wiccan
and kept jars full of roots
and dried animals
in a cupboard
over the sink.
Whenever I said anything was wrong
she lit some candles
consulted her Master Book of Herbalism
she had purchased down at Market Square
and concocted a rancid smelling brew
that always made me sick
upon ingestion.
When she converted to Buddhism
she replaced all her candles
with wooden Buddha head carvings,
threw out all her mystery jars,
and told me that guided reflection
was the way to go.
Once I reflected on why I had stayed with her
so long,
I finally came to my senses
and decided to go.
I now hear through the grapevine
that when Buddhism didn't cut it
she switched to yoga
and when yoga ran its course
she became a skinhead.
Attending rallies in her Doc Martens
and spending a small fortune
on razors.
- Ryan Quinn Flanagan
(added 02.10.10)
The Mail
The mailwoman started leaving my mail
at the end of the driveway
after she peered through my front window
and saw me naked
with a garden hose
watering my rug
to the Sounds of the 80s.
Mail service grew sporadic
after I placed a "Beware of Goldfish" sign
on my front door
and she caught me de-boning some raw Atlantic salmon
with my teeth
adorned in yellow tights
a superman cape
and a 14 inch boning knife.
Mail delivery stopped altogether
when she discovered me naked
and passed out face down
in a blow up swimming pool
in my living room
with whipped cream swirls
on both cheeks of my ass
and a signed Menudo poster
strewn over the couch arm.
I now have to go down to the post office
to collect my mail.
Apparently,
some people scare easily.
- Ryan Quinn Flanagan
(featured in the poetry forum 12.27.09)
Mixed Messages
The latest apartment
I've moved into
is loaded with personality.
The whore who lived here last
left three keys to nearby motels
in the linen closet
and carved the word DIE
in the front door.
It was okay as long as
she used the motels
but a neighbour ratted her out
when she worked from home.
There are some interesting stains
on the bedroom wall
under fluorescence
but the word DIE
carved in the front door
takes the cake.
I was thinking about getting
a WELCOME mat
to send
mixed messages
and
watch the mailman
flounder with
indecision.
- Ryan Quinn Flanagan
(featured in the poetry forum 11.11.09)
Asking for Directions
When I was a kid,
parents
teachers
and community leaders
taught me to never approach the car
of someone asking for directions
because they likely wanted to abduct
molest
and possibly kill me.
It was not until I was driving around
completely lost
years later
that I realized the absurdity
of such claims.
Regardless of whether I asked children
or adults for directions,
in the span of two hours
I had seven people run away
four called me a pedophile outright
two a killer
and one shrieking woman beat the trunk of my car
with a stick.
Thank god
I didn’t stop off at the convenience store
for some candy
for the road trip
as I had planned to do.
I’d probably be serving a life sentence now
and I still wouldn’t
have directions.
Ryan Quinn Flanagan
(featured in the poetry forum 09.21.09) |
