Sex Toes
if it ended
in sex
toes.
Blood flush
and fully extended
like toast
from the toaster.
Ask another Ouija board
who killed Kennedy
in the streets
of Dallas.
like cucumber
seeds
Heist
or anything
but desperate enough
to put on that black balaclava
in the middle of the afternoon
and arm myself with a butterfly knife
and accost that garden snail down the street
by the curbside
because humans can run away
while a snail cannot -
an easy target, I thought,
like the muggers of old ladies
like the reader of tea leaves instead of Tolstoy,
but the tiny bugger wouldn’t budge,
he ignored my many knifepoint demands
and when I tried to take his shell
he wouldn’t give it up,
leaving me with a decision to make:
the use of force
or a quick exit strategy,
and being the coward I am
I turned
and took off running
down the
street.
with myself.
Meet the Parents
She wheels me out into the front room
loads a cannonball in my mouth
and points me directly
at them.
may depend on
it.
They do not like me,
I can tell.
all for naught.
from California.
After an hour or so
of idle chatter
and many uncomfortable glares,
she wheels me back
into the back room
and closes the door
over.
the window -
full of dismembered Barbies.
Bio: Ryan Quinn Flanagan is a wheezing asthmatic who enjoys short walks on the beach. He lives deep in the Canadian Shield with his toaster oven and his muse, believing himself to be eternally hungry as many his poems are about food.
String theory
would be plausible if it ended
in sex
toes.
Blood flush
and fully extended
like toast
from the toaster.
Ask another Ouija board
who killed Kennedy
in the streets
of Dallas.
Hoffa
buried in the backyardlike cucumber
seeds
in a summer
garden.Heist
I was desperate, I’ll admit it,
not whiskered soup kitchen desperate or anything
but desperate enough
to put on that black balaclava
in the middle of the afternoon
and arm myself with a butterfly knife
and accost that garden snail down the street
by the curbside
because humans can run away
while a snail cannot -
an easy target, I thought,
like the muggers of old ladies
like the reader of tea leaves instead of Tolstoy,
but the tiny bugger wouldn’t budge,
he ignored my many knifepoint demands
and when I tried to take his shell
he wouldn’t give it up,
leaving me with a decision to make:
the use of force
or a quick exit strategy,
and being the coward I am
I turned
and took off running
down the
street.
Verily proud of that little snail
and mildly disappointed with myself.
Meet the Parents
She wheels me out into the front room
loads a cannonball in my mouth
and points me directly
at them.
They smile
like their very livesmay depend on
it.
They do not like me,
I can tell.
I can always tell.
Nothing makes it better,
the cheese platterall for naught.
Those little rounded crackers
that smell like bacon.
Everyone plied with wine.
Something white
and dryfrom California.
After an hour or so
of idle chatter
and many uncomfortable glares,
she wheels me back
into the back room
and closes the door
over.
And I feel at home again,
among her many curiosities.
This old rocking horse
with the painted streetwalker eyes.
A childhood dollhouse -
in the corner by the window -
full of dismembered Barbies.
Bio: Ryan Quinn Flanagan is a wheezing asthmatic who enjoys short walks on the beach. He lives deep in the Canadian Shield with his toaster oven and his muse, believing himself to be eternally hungry as many his poems are about food.
No comments:
Post a Comment