Bug Bunny Never Went to War

Rollercoasters let it ride,
but I can’t be so winding theme park
laissez-faire.

Bugs Bunny never went to war.
Made his 1940 film debut
in the animated short,
A Wild Hare.

And it was good times
for our resident carrot chomper
after that.

The boys in uniform,
not so much.

They should have sent a talking rabbit
to the war.

That would have scared the shit out
of the Germans.

Instead of pandering for laughs
at home.

One of Disney’s longest tenured employees.

Probably draws a
Fabio-handsome pension
though.

All the finest carrots from
all the best soil.

The war over
just long enough
to start a new one
all over again.


The Dominatrix Always Wins

There are candles that burn out on you
and then there are candles put out on you.

Private first class Hot Wax
reporting for duty.

The Dominatrix always wins.
Not a single losing season
among the madams.

Simple as that.

Pierce the flesh
and pocket the monies.

Five-inch cockroach killers
and not a single off-white
pest killer cube van in sight.

Just clothespins pinching the nipples
like a brand new way to do the laundry.

Furry handcuffs
without the key.

And this final warning
of warnings:

there are no safe words
when the censor comes for
your mouth or mind
or body.


Montezuma’s House of Revenge

It was back in the limestone city.
Passing this small strip mall near Bath Road.

This martial arts place on the second floor.
Over the ESL joint that never taught you
why polish and Polish were the exact same word,
but completely different when it came to nails.

And the sweat dripping down my face,
a most unforgiving summer.

That green sign with black Kung-Fu movie lettering
that read: Montezuma’s House of Revenge –
Karate, MMA, Ju-jitsu, ninjas

It was that last option
that seemed most intriguing.


Blue Antifreeze Snow Cone

I walk by this frozen driveway
with the snow knocked off
a parked silver Hyundai Elantra.

Look down to this blue antifreeze
snow cone sitting there
in a bed of fresh white snow.

Think of all the kiddies
building snow forts
that may never come home
for dinner.

Under the silence of a grey
bird-less sky.

Some half-witty bumper sticker
hanging on by sticky last
holdout corner.

While a joyous German Shepherd
two doors down
tries to catch shovelled snow
in its mouth.

Jumping gleefully
into the gaping black ice
cosmos.

If this is winter,
it is hardly the worst
of it.

Even that long biting wind
taking the day off.

This mortuary still way
I watch my own breath
like seeing ghosts.


Lean Years

There were some lean years there,
let me tell you!
he said.

Let me tell you, good sir,
that for the poor
every year
is a lean
year.

The Man from Ryoca

He arrived with none of the necessary papers,
but all the intent of a happy holiday maker,
this man from Ryoca, though none could place it
on a map, and the birds in the sky seemed to fascinate the man,
dressed strangely for the season, but completely affable
so that no one knew what to do with this tall pale gentleman
who helped you dig through his luggage as if leading
some prestigious archeological team from the university,
so that when the questioning began, it was friendly enough;
tucked away behind glass like a fine martini,
and when the man folded his hands, it was with all
the lost beauty of 1000-year-old origami;
if you found yourself charmed,
you were happier than you’d been in years
and hardly alone.

A Completely Made Up Poem

He was tasked with putting the garbage
out for the night.

Tossing the black bags
over the lip of the dumpster
in the side alley,
listening for that startled shuffle
of raccoons that normally
came.

You still open?
a sudden voice
came from behind.

He turned and squinted.
Held his hand over his eyes
so he could make out the vague
silhouettes of three men.

Beat it!
he said.

Pulling out pipes
from behind their backs,
they edged closer.

That’s the plan!
the big one grinned.

Blue Steak

She says
that is what they order
when they want
it raw,
so I sit up
and give her
the swanky blue steak
of this poem
to chew on,
waiting for her
many complaints
to come running
back to the deaf ears
of this saucy
stainless steel mate’s
rates kitchen.


She Whistles When She Snores, I Can’t Even Whistle When I’m Awake

Some people have different talents.
Think roaming Galileo eyes as sudden baking soda volcano.

I never had a talent,
so I never once entered the talent show.

Sat cross-legged in the nosebleeds
poking at my belly button
over my shirt.

Wondering if I could tickle my spine
if I stuck my finger in far enough.

This, of course, is not a talent.
No one claps for the skinny quiet kid
that keeps fingering his own bellybutton.

But this one beside me now, she has talents.
She whistles when she snores, I can’t even whistle
when I’m awake.

I sound like a mouthful of crackers
without a mouth full
of crackers.

Lay awake,
barely moving for the full
seven hours.

When we get up,
she asks If I slept well.

I tell her I did.
Take ten hours to drink
a single glass of orange juice.

Blame the heavy black bags under my eyes
on miniature clothes shopping women
that can never get enough.

3 Types

She is looking through my notes again,
notices 3 types of handwriting:
normal, stoned and drunk.

All completely different.
A handwriting expert would swear
these were written by 3 different people!
Look, she says.

I look.
It is true.

No resemblance at all.

The normal being
much of what I remember
from my youth.

The stoned is small and tight
and focussed in the extreme
while the drunk is loose and loopy
and hard to make out.

This is NOT healthy!
she holds up the piece of paper.

For which one of me?
I ask flamboyantly.

That is the drunk me speaking.
I wonder if we all speak
differently as well.

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.