“Those That Play Together, Stay Together”

 

She smiled

and told me that

those that play

together, stay together

and I told her that

wasn’t true,

that popular sports

teams traded away

players all the

time,

some do to age

or injury

or decreased

production

or even locker

room chemistry

but they traded them

all the same,

and she pulled away

and said she was

just trying to be

romantic

which is why

I told her I had

no plans to trade

her

even though

we were in a

contract

year.

 

The Queen is On Your Money

 

We are sitting in that uncomfortable way

that men used to standing

for long hours do

 

and he says: you have a queen,

the queen is on your money

 

and I tell him that the only queens

I admire are the drags down at Spinoza’s

that pull off a convincing Cher

 

and he laughs

and asks why I still going to those

fruit joints

 

and I tell him I have always admired

a man who can keep his legs shaved,

that they seem purposeful and alive,

I can’t even keep my own face shaved

 

and he takes out a crumbled bill

as tells me I have to get some real money

with a face like this on it

 

and I ask him when the greenback

has finally settled on Max Headroom

for their monetary likeness.

 

Poem for a Child that Has Yet to be Persuaded

 

A child

can still dream.

 

Adulthood

is the lost war

for that dream.

 

A capitulation.

 

A blind acceptance

that what has come before

is good enough,

and what could have

been,

 

too painful to ever

remember.

 

 

The Tree in the Front Yard

 

It was our second place on Bernick Drive.

We had just moved to a house on the same street.

And there was this leafy green tree in the front yard

that my parents seemed proud of.

They watered it, although they had never even kept

a garden, and I was not allowed to climb it.

I did once and caught quite the thrashing.

The tree is too small!, my father would yell.

And in the front yard, we don’t want our neighbours

thinking we are THOSE kind of people!, my mother

would say.

I didn’t know who those people were, but we didn’t

want to be it.

 

The tree out back was all mine.

Rotting near the fence with giant white

tent caterpillar nests all through it.

I had to watch where I put my hands

when climbing.

 

Each August, my father would light

all the nests on fire and watch the caterpillars

catch fire and fall to their deaths.

Then he would take a fire extinguisher

to the yard and tell me not to climb

that tree either.

 

Deadbeat Don

 

has kids

with three different

women

and he supports

none of them

hiding his money

putting everything in

his girlfriend’s name

and only taking jobs

that pay under

the table

so that his wages

won’t be garnisheed

and he can appear

unemployed to

the taxman

 

and each year

his girlfriend

and him vacation

in Florida,

she has a good job

and knows the

loopholes

so that their drinks

and meals and gas

are write-offs

she gets back

in tax

 

whoever

said the world

is fair

must have been talking

about someplace

else

‘cause this one

is a real humdinger

and Deadbeat Don

takes the cake.

 

 

Ha Ha Pavement

 

There are no jumpers to speak of

just ha ha pavement

with ruts all through it

 

and the way I point

and laugh

 

so that others avoid me

in the street

 

and it is nice to be all alone

 

I have always thought well of tumbleweeds

that lead to celluloid shootings

 

the absent way they carry themselves

never pretending to run the show

 

like craft services with all their tiny

triangle sandwiches

 

no jumpers,

the street cleaners

will be happy

 

just foot traffic

and an open air space

 

and 3 for 1 shirts

from the head shop

that always smells.

 

 

“Open for Beeswax”

 

Greg

was this guy I knew

from back in high school

with long buck teeth

and straw flat hair that

always looked as though

a farm thresher had

just been run over

his head

and since neither

of us aged gracefully

we could sort of

understand each other

except for his constant need

to troll the bars

well past his prime

looking for younger girls

and the ridiculous way

he would run his fingers

across his chest

and say:

“open for beeswax”

whenever I asked him

how things were

going

 

I guess he thought

he was being funny

but some girl’s boyfriend

did not agree

and the doctors wired

his jaw shut for a good

five months

 

and then he went

down south for

work

 

and this old couple moved

into his place

and took turns dying

 

so that the house sits

empty now

 

with a large bay window

in front

where Greg’s Siamese cat

used to sit all day

 

mean mugging

the half the known

world.

 

Car Bomb

 

That car bomb

was not meant

for you

 

now

it is back

to the drawing

board

 

the funeral just symbolic

 

there is no way to fill

a casket with anything

but bloody rocks

 

please understand

that your wife and offspring

must be killed

now

 

we must rise above

personal vendetta

 

you should have never

taken those keys

and started that

car

 

such indignities

were never meant

for you.

 

 

Pods

 

transformation, you say,

but is beauty assured?

 

in the eye of the eye, you say

I do not believe you

 

I believe less and less all the time,

I’m like the inquisition on steroids

 

not that your truth is any less,

but more that my lies have surpassed

mere hobbies

 

the growth you champion is cloistered

and pink and bulbous

 

wings at busy airports

devoid of plane

 

a rash for which there are creams

 

beauty, you say,

lost to itch and scratch

and buzzing

 

I cannot believe

I am lost to time.

 

 

Dinosaurs Left the Earth

 

Dinosaurs left the earth

nothing in the dirt

 

from flinging fortress

 

all man is pissed

almond be rinsed

 

come singing madras

 

my dress

my mess

 

all man is pissed

under ground more

tests.

 

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.