RYAN QUINN FLANAGAN

RYAN QUINN FLANAGAN

UPON THE DEATH OF STEPHEN HAWKING

The leaves return,

he said.

Seated at that table of four

in the Commons Ground.

If you believe in god,

everything does,

I retorted.

He let a tiny chuckle out

of the side of his

mouth.

I take it you don’t believe in god,

he said.

Staring off into the distance

I shook my head no.

Too bad, he said,

too bad.

As I blew lightly over

my cup of tea.

Knowing it

was still too hot

to drink.

 

MISTER ED’S BUTT DOUBLE

The horses pile into the barn at night

and speak of their dubious time in the movies:

Russell Crowe rode me in Gladiator,

says a white one.

No he didn’t, a voice come from the filly in the next stall,

you always say that when you can’t sleep

and want to start shit.

You’re just jealous because you’re not even fit

to be Mister Ed’s butt double,

the white horse retorts.

Hey, I was Mister Ed’s butt double back in the 60s,

another horse says, how did you know about that?

I’m Black Beauty, a black mare says proudly

from one of the far stalls at the end.

Well, you’re not anymore!, comes another voice.

Did I ever tell you about how most of my family

died in the massacre of Ben Hur?,

another horse chimes in.

Oh, here we go again with the victim card,

you don’t get extra hay for it, claims a stallion gruffly,

there is no such thing as sympathy hay.

Then a small colt gets to its feet and says:

I was Babe.

Babe was a pig, its mother scoffs,

now go back to sleep.

 

CRANIAL GUARDIAN

The phone is disconnected.

My thoughts are disconnected.

The phone is my thoughts in physical form.

When I hold it to my ear, I am just returning my thoughts

to their rightful cranial guardian.

And when I pull dandelions up by the stem,

it is my own brain stem that fills with pollen.

That crisp sudden snapping I hear may explain

why my phone thoughts have been disconnected.

And there is monies with wrinkled old faces on it.

Everyone demanding more monies.

Feeling deep into kangaroo pockets for a little

taste of the dream.

RYAN QUINN FLANAGAN

RYAN QUINN FLANAGAN is a Canadian-born author residing in Elliot Lake, Ontario, Canada with his wife and many bears that rifle through his garbage.  His work can be found both in print and online in such places as: Evergreen Review, The New York Quarterly, Our Poetry Archive, Setu, Literary Yard, and The Oklahoma Review.