Ryan Quinn Flanagan (Canada)

Ryan Quinn Flanagan (Canada)

 

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, Blue Mountain Review, Red Fez, and The Oklahoma Review.

 

Effete

a personal feud
a war without patronage
busts of old men long deceased
the boils still attached so ugliness
need not be imagined

tobacco pipe packing
distant chimney billow
crinkled stockings over knobby-kneed
absentia

messengers of bike:
spoke, wheel, chain
grease the palms

chum whistling fog
an artisan of depiction

you can smell the river
in his swirling turpentine
paints.

 

Glad-handing the Morose Out of Any Lingering Feelings

Not the Depression again!
Men out of work and work out of jobs,
taking roll call in the shower one can find loneliness
surrounded by lather,
glad-handing the morose out of any lingering feelings
not everyone that stays for dinner
is a cannibal –
the roads should stay open in case the mind does not
so the airport shuttle with plans for the night
can deliver you to underground terminals
that have nothing to do with illness –
instances of shuffleboard among the elderly
this sweating beer here in my lap like an avid sun-goer
making the most of the angular Pythagorean day
(sucking snake poison out of wounds
too scared to close entirely)
hubris stays open 24 hours,
buzzing blue night things COLD BEER electrocuted,
this itchy roaming city climbing into your mouth
tongue first.

 

A Moral Hysterectomy

The clouds part and there is time differential to consider,
Einstein with his cock in his hand because he is a man first
and a scientist second, drugs so potent the human appetite
swallows itself so that you don’t come back, this feverish wind about
that fells trees and downs powerlines, a leering pulpy throat of gulping wet
uneasiness, this tremor through my hands that is beyond my false
control, like that distant Chinese emperor who got so angry about
a drought that he ordered his artillerymen to fire upon the sky
until it rained except that it rained the next day for him
to help maintain the illusion; I have not been so lucky with
my many constructs, not so much that some oft-negligent draftsman
is manning the table, but more a vague agitation that there was never
even a draft table to speak of and that any man who wrestles with the bear
of his doubts is bound to be mauled; the closer I allow myself to get,
the less I believe, it is a moral hysterectomy and a savage one;
experiments in Philadelphia for the invisible man and this tilted
drink glass upon my lips like twin miseries.

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