Friday, June 1, 2018

RYAN QUINN FLANAGAN



RYAN QUINN FLANAGAN

COMBS ASSUME HAIR

Any man
that does not
understand the geography
of himself

is simply
the map of
others.





TERRIBLE GOLDFISH

I see your wide swimming mouth
the bubbles your tiny life makes

dirty bowl fin flapping through
my mind

the cats detest you, terrible goldfish,

you give them a hunger
thwarted by a simple
screen

I watch them fail
and think of Napoleon
in Russia

the way men will follow men
to folly,
but get angry and tailgate a single car
not going fast enough

and the orange you speak of
is gone so fast it never colours
anything

I look for orange you, terrible goldfish,
the many hues on the walls;
scour the galleries without ever knowing
you have left.




I HEAR AFRICA IS BREAKING IN TWO

I hear Africa is breaking in two.
Well, it’s been a rough year for all of us.
It’s been sliding pesos under imaginary walls.
It’s been wedding cake that lasts forever
for a marriage that ended 20 years ago.
And the smell of egregiousness is everywhere.
Like a dirty fryer the fast food boys refuse to clean.
I dip my toe in the ocean and multiply.
Then fall off trying to mount the curb.
It’s Splitsville everywhere.
People leaving one place, only to leave another.
And the tip of my pencil breaks halfway through my signature.
I can’t be bothered to look out a new one to finish.
The quarterback of the Cowboys will be out 6-8 weeks,
torn labrum.
And the pictures I tape to the wall keep falling off.
I am in a terrible way.
So are all of you, I see it on your faces.
The way you wince each time you get up
to leave.

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.

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