Poetry from Ryan Quinn Flanagan

Gratuity Rex


He told his driver to take him to the airport

and since he was the driver

he drove to the airport

and he thought about tipping the driver

the conversation was friendly



but something about the driver irked him

some people just don’t get on


so he decided to be polite

but firm


unloading his own bags

from the trunk


and since the airplane would not be invented

for another half century

he had to sit in the airport terminal

for quite a while


before his





There is a tiny hole in the wall

and I take off all my clothes

and climb into it


and it is hard to move

but I have never been claustrophobic

in small spaces


as I squeeze and winch and turn

back towards the hole


peering out


to notice a perfect hairy bearded representation

of myself

hunched over the keyboard


typing a poem



that may look a lot like

this one.


Flying Car


There was a flying car

that looked just like a bird;

feathers, beak, and talon –

the whole thing,

but everyone knew it was a car

and not a bird

because it was said there was

a tiny driver inside

with a seatbelt made of blood

and tinted windshield eyes,

making his way around the world

in record time

with a giant brown worm

in his mouth.


That Afternoon I Spent as Snow





















The mines had closed down,

the foundry too


jobs were scarce


so when the opportunity

presented itself

he pounced,


jumping on the backs

of complete strangers

in the street

who would grow angry

with many threats of violence


because they did not understand

that you take work wherever you can find it,

and just how hard it is to be a backpack

when you are so used to

being a human.


Ryan Quinn Flanagan is a Canadian-born author residing in Elliot Lake, Ontario, Canada with his other half and mounds of snow.  His work can be found both in print and online in such places as: Evergreen Review, The New York Quarterly, Word Riot, In Between Hangovers, Red Fez, and The Oklahoma Review.