Dossier
They probably have a dossier on you,
he told me,
they start with your high school record,
maybe earlier.
I told him I did not spend a lot of time at high school
so they might have a tough time.
They got everything, he screamed, EVERYTHING!
Everything you have ever thought, felt, done is in there.
Really?
I’d like to read that,
I said,
how can I get in touch
with them?
They get in touch with you, he warned,
and you DON’T want that.
That was the great thing about hanging around
paranoid personalities,
nary a dull moment.
Especially when he was off his meds.
I’ve seen tornadoes with more sense,
though most of windy Kansas would likely
disagree.
Coffee Mug
She has called in sick
and is feeling
guilty.
Don’t worry, I say,
they will just replace you
as though you were never even there.
Like those ones that give them forty years
and get a coffee mug in return.
They are replaced and forgotten
by Monday morning.
And she gets mad at me.
But she is smart enough to know
she is just mad at herself
for feeling guilty.
That is what I like about this one.
And her legs that seem to go
on forever.
The hours we spend in bed
are just a reminder.
“to hell and back”
to hell and back, they say it
all the time, those that know nothing
of a hell –
personal or otherwise,
but they say it to each other
to imply some guarded wisdom
that has been gleaned,
some cathartic little turnpike
in the concrete sinkhole;
to hell and back,
roundtrip,
no need for a travel
agent.
I do not believe them
just as I do not believe you
now.
There are cherries for the orchard
and then there are cherries.
I make jam of them
both.
Old Married Couple
Coming out of the bathroom
I trip over the cat
in the dark.
Who scratches my foot
and draws blood.
Racing off under the table
and licking at his paws
as I curse at him.
And this is how we live.
Like an old married couple.
Keeping our distance
and trying to make the best
of it.
Eating by ourselves
and sleeping by ourselves.
I still have the opposable thumbs,
so I hold the key to
the city.
Blue Shirt Poem
Get at it resident
receptor
wine soaked conduit
blue shirt
pull at notion hairs
from the head
cradle Hammurabi
water through fingers
fingers through
hair
waves all around
our everlasting
ocean.
Condo Fees
$500/month
for what?
Get a lot of snow on the 27th floor
do you?
Last time I checked
the weight room was one large pink yoga mat
of downward facing dogs
on a ten day detox.
And the pool
was being shocked
because there are young children
and diapers are
not enough.
$40, 000 a year for a parking space.
Does that seem reasonable to anyone?
There is a sucker born every minute
according to P.T. Barnum
and they have all decided to live
in condos.
Bareknuckle
They just held the first ever bareknuckle boxing
event on PPV this past weekend.
$29.99, most affordable.
Legal in the state of Wyoming.
A few familiar names on the card.
Big show washouts looking for a payday.
And somehow I wish it was still underground.
The way they started and never advertised.
In factories or shipping yards
or back alleys without
a referee.
Before the big money arrives.
Corrupting everything.
The moment you punch someone
else in the face for money
with sponsors on your shorts
you become a commodity,
no different than a Starbucks
coffee.
You can advertise,
but you are the product.
The thing
others make money on
for doing nothing.
The President of Tree Nuts
walks across the floor
over the seal
a cracked walnut,
it is meant to be
ironic,
but he doesn’t
see it
signing stainless steel appliances
out of law
because robotics has no place
in the kitchen
and the future is female
and free before
eleven.
Money Loves Company
don’t tell me
you wouldn’t spend
it
if you had it,
but you
don’t,
we’ve all seen those pictures
in the vault
many rich men
with no way to
spend it
going offshore
frequenting the laundromats
of all their buttoned-down
powerful friends
on the hill
as though Jack
and Jill
had never been
there
to begin with
and only the shit
rolls down.
Winter Reveal
You paid what for a New York studio?
I guess it is good to be close to the action.
To try wrestle the five boroughs away
from the New York mob one painting
at a time.
The others didn’t have it.
Maybe you do.
Perhaps there is a new way to
shuffle hand soap.
I wouldn’t drive either
when you can hop in a cab
and go nowhere just
the same.
I heard you got your own show
next February.
At this gallery where some
famous fashion designer
hung them
self.
Much the conversation piece
I’d imagine.
Out with the old, right?
Over an earthy white Bordeaux.
I am certain I can’t make the winter reveal.
There is this health scare that must be dealt with.
Nothing serious.
Not at all like your newest works.
I can almost smell the bullshit on your breath.
Let’s hope it sells.
Ryan Quinn Flanagan is a Canadian-born author residing in Elliot Lake, Ontario, Canada with his wife and many bears that rifle though his garbage. His work can be found both in print and online in such places as: Evergreen Review, The New York Quarterly, Synchronized Chaos, Literary Yard, Red Fez, and The Oklahoma Review.