GPS
The kids on the street
have been breaking into cars
again.A big redheaded cop
with freckles
stands in the next driveway over
with my neighbour,
taking notes.It seems the driver’s side window
is broken
and the GPS is missing
from the dash.The cop tells my neighbour
that his
is the tenth GPS stolen
in the last three
weeks.All those GPSs.
They say the kids nowadays
have no direction.This will help.
Without Reincarnation,
There is Only Recycling
The bones
of a swing
where lovers
used to
hangfirst kisses
long deadand now
paint chip
rusteddiscarded
like Lumumba
beside the large recycle
bins
the city picks
upevery second
Tuesdayfull of glass
and cardboardand unwanted
foetuses
with the coat hanger
still attached.
Cow Brain Slurries
It was in Ottawa
on the drunk
byward market
after 2am
with the missus
hungry as ant eaters
we walked into this
Lebanese joint
that served brain.The guy in the back
stood over a pail of cow brains
in a yellow fish monger’s smock.Grinding everything down
to liquid cow brain slurry
with a giant emulsion device
that resembled a weed
whacker.The sound and smell and sight
were awful.The front of house guy
flashed a toothy firing squad
grin.We were hungry
but not that
hungry.My old lady
told the guy that we
had to hit
a bank machine
and we got the hell
out of there.Back to the hotel
to our queen non-smoking
to many reverse cowgirl acrobatics
in the dark.
Guinea Pigs
You see them
out front the medical research
building,
belly up on the grass
smoking at the
sun.In groups of 15 –
maybe 20 –
stunned as downed birds
on the lawn
as the 68 Warden
heads south
to Warden Station.For $30 bucks a pop
each to a man
would give up his first
born.They have given up more
for less.This is easy.
Once a week
injected by the white
coats
with mystery serums,
then back to the grass
like grazing cattle.Passing cigarettes
back and forth
like hot potatoes.You see
them.
$9 Drinks
Perched high
on book end bar stools
he tells me.Over $9 drinks
he tells me.I think I’m gay, man,
I have these urges.I fold a cocktail napkin
into an airplane
and pretend that I’m
on it.When I’m standing over the urinal
in the men’s crapper
I want to look,
he whispers,
jesus man, I really in
a bad way.The DJ plays really bad
club music.The dance floor
full of sweat and strobe
and whirl.The shooter girl walks by
with camel toe,
her skin tights
riding halfway up her ass.Balancing many green and purple beakers
and I catch him looking.Any chance she’s a man?,
he smiles,
‘cause I think I’m gay.
Air Show
There were many sunglass faces
in the grandstand.
All looking skyward
like the church crowd
brought outdoors.
Watching the pilots
perform daredevil tricks
at low altitudes
in close formation.
Wing to wing
in nosedive
until plane met
ground.Then the crowd would be silent
for some minutes –
hand over
mouth –
trying to hide their exhilaration
and satisfaction
as the ambulances raced out
into the field
to drag the body
from the wreckage.It happened two or three times
a season:Proud father of two
and loving husband
dies on impact,
the news line
would read.The rest of the time
the planes all landed safely
and the crowd went home
disappointed.
Ryan:
Great work! Powerfully presented with simplicity of language and profundity of meaning. Good to see you here.
Nice going, Ryan! You have a good eye, that takes a long, unwincing look. And a pen that can get this feel down. Keep rolling!
Thanks guys. Glad you enjoyed the read.
These six p0ems by Ryan Quinn Flanagan are gritty, bitterly ironic, funny as hell and brilliant.
Raymond Keen – author of “Love Poems for Cannibals” and “The Private and Public Life of King Able”