Skipping Rosetta Stones Across the Backs of the Ages

by Ryan Quinn Flanagan

The dancing bear does circus tricks,

piñatas on the cover of S&M Monthly,

and my days are filled with little more

than laying here

staring at the ceiling

waiting for the muse to arrive

with the fire.

Skipping Rosetta stones across

the backs of the ages.

There are large craters in the couch upholstery

from where the heels of my idleness

have come to rest for far too long.

I run my hands across the contours

of another wasted moon landing

and wait

for it to get dark.

The dancing bear mauls a midget,

shadows dance across my walls;

sometimes a foxtrot

never a waltz.

Sausage Fest

by Ryan Quinn Flanagan

Winston

promised there would be girls

and plenty to drink,

but when I arrived with a six pack

and a fifth of rum

I walked in ten to fifteen guys

talking about their feelings;

straight as a bent straw

and in the confessional

after two beers.

Plenty to drink

had become seven beers

in the fridge

and a bottle of gin

(split fourteen ways)

and there wasn't a girl

in sight

as I started in on my six pack

in the corner.

A knock at the door

and some surfer types

in Bermuda shorts arrived,

followed by a couple of roid freaks

doing pushups

in tanks tops

and two delicate little blonde boys

with their guitars

and harmonicas

playing the worst of Simon

and Garfunkel

as I polished off the beer

and started in on the fifth

of rum.

People collapse

like economies collapse,

and with prohibition making a comeback

and not a woman in sight,

I slunk down into my chair

and grew ever more

despondent.

I puked a little in my mouth

as the conversation shifted aimlessly

from sports

to cars

to protein shakes

and back to sports.

Even the music

had grown all baritone

and facial hair.

All adam,

no eve.

It was a real sausage fest

in there.

And according to the calendar

on the wall,

Oktoberfest was still

seven months

away.

Mixed Messages

by Ryan Quinn Flanagan

The latest apartment
I've moved into
is loaded with personality.

The whore who lived here last
left three keys to nearby motels
in the linen closet
and carved the word DIE
in the front door.

It was okay as long as
she used the motels
but a neighbour ratted her out
when she worked from home.
There are some interesting stains
on the bedroom wall
under fluorescence
but the word DIE
carved in the front door
takes the cake.

I was thinking about getting
a WELCOME mat
to send
mixed messages
and
watch the mailman

flounder with
indecision.

Christ On the Lawn

by Ryan Quinn Flanagan

A mob gathered outside

my front window and

beat the shit out of

a dealer they said was

getting their kids hooked

on dangerous stuff.

At first

I thought about intervening

on the dealer's behalf

but I had things to do.

The mob passed judgement with sticks

and I

decided to let them use my lawn

while I grabbed a fresh beer

from the fridge

filled the dish sink with soap and

washed my hands of

the whole affair.

Two weeks later

the lawn across the street

was littered with pink flamingos

but

the mob

left them alone.

Baby Dills

by Ryan Quinn Flanagan

Mother had a miscarriage
and kept the fetus
in a pickle jar
on the top shelf of the linen closet.
She called it her ‘baby dill’
and talked to it each time she passed
in the hallway
and at Christmas she hung it a stocking
where she kept her London Dry gin
and scratch tickets
while family were over.

As a child
the jarred fetus mother kept in the linen closet
was rather unsettling to me
but it paled in comparison
to the jarred one she buried under my swing set
out back
and sang old Irish ballads too
in the evenings
when she was drunk on gin.

Needless to say,
when I wanted to swing
I waited my turn at the playground up the street.
The few times I did use the swing set out back
I tried to remain elevated
as long as possible.
Each time I came down
with dragging feet
I always expected something to reach up
and grab me.

Crazy Irish

by Ryan Quinn Flanagan

The beer and wine
are fine
but once I get into the whisky
the crazy Irish comes out
and I slather on the war paint
and howl at the moon
from my kitchen window
before picking one long stem rose
from my neighbour’s garden
for every crossword clue I get right
on the puzzle I’m doing.

By the next afternoon
when I go out to mail a letter,
the rest of the neighbourhood has come together
and each planted something
to replenish my neighbour’s garden.

The great advantage of being crazy
is that no one ever comments
on what you’ve done
for fear of

what you’ll do.

Bloody Towel

by Ryan Quinn Flanagan

When I woke up
this afternoon
there was a bloody towel
in the bathroom
which graced the floor
without remark.
I do not know how it
got there.
I’ve scoured my body for fresh wounds
but nothing.
I stole a newspaper
and read it front to back
but nothing seems to explain away
the bloody towel.

It could be a plant
but I’m far from certain.

Anyone who may have information
pertaining to the bloody towel
is urged to

keep it to yourself.

The Blue of Every Flame

by Ryan Quinn Flanagan

Tweekers in car parks

jack cars for a fix

while muggers lay in wait

for first dates

and the Bowery drunks

stumble out into traffic

giving Happy Hour legs.

The black eyed susan across the hall

started tricking again

and now her old man

is back downtown

for assault and battery

while I sit half mad

on a bed full of empty Vodka minis

rubbing magazine cologne samples

all over my chest

and dancing in front of the vanity

like some dime store whirling dervish

as the roaches scurry

the neon hums

and the serviced johns in the stairwell

moan through paper thin walls.

All around me,

the world is alive

and I

am the mad manic heart

of the universe.

The blue of every flame.

Armies

by Ryan Quinn Flanagan

The armies of Napoleon marched
for glory.

The armies of Hitler
for vengeance.

The armies of workday feet
that march outside
my morning window

march without purpose
or direction.

Some have briefcases
and others throw breadcrumbs

and a few hawk bibles
to anyone
who will listen.

Storm Drain

by Ryan Quinn Flanagan

The police cordoned off the area around the storm drain

out front my house

when I was ten

and would not let anyone know what had been found floating

inside.

Within minutes

a crowd gathered in the street

and with no yellow-tape-answers forthcoming,

speculation begin.

It’s a child’s body!

It’s Hoffa!

It’s long forgotten stolen bank haul!

It’s the family dog that hasn’t been seen

in weeks!

Out of the way, it must be my dog!

The old lady in front claims she caught a partial glimpse

of an alien space craft down there

when she passed over it the previous day

That’s preposterous, says another onlooker

a city planner I know assured me our storm drains

were built to withstand an alien attack.

The shell shocked solider in a blue cap

and overalls begins waving wildly:

It’s the Communists,

or the terrorists,

no, it’s the Communists…

Or the Chinese…

The Chinese?, some other woman mutters in a panic

The woman ponders for a second

then whispers to her friend

and I can not make out the whisperings as they get more frequent

and make their way throughout the ranks

of the crowd.

I am ten

and excited by the ad hoc broken telephone game

that has sprouted up out of the uncertainty

of the moment.

I wait impatiently for the wild eyed whisperings to make their way

around to me

and by the time they do, the Chinese in the storm drain

have once again become Communists

and likely a few other incarnations

in between.

Although the man beside me says the Communists

are armed with red spiked helmets

and a cache of stolen grenade launchers,

I think his imagination lacking

and determine to correct his shortcoming.

Just then,

a kid about my age

on a bike pulls up

and asks:

Hey, what’s going on?

I lean in and whisper to him

that a reliable source had just confirmed

there is a man eating alligator on the loose

in the storm drain out front my house

and that he has a mouthful of Communist hostages

and is demanding a zillion dollars in unmarked bills

and a helicopter to take him

back to Florida.

The kid grows wild-eyed and cranes his neck back and forth

to get a better view.

When he cannot see anything,

he rides off excitedly to tell his friends

the news.

The next day at school

we are all asked to recount the story.

Only this time the Communists are gone,

and the overwhelming crowd consensus is

an angry weather balloon

in fishnet stockings.

For Freedom or Democracy or Something

by Ryan Quinn Flanagan

After basic in Borden

the soldiers congregate in Fred Grant Square

for a send off

before being shipped out to Halifax harbour

for deployment.

With each major deployment,

the municipal authorities

bring out the decorated veteran amputees

of the last war

to show off their shiny medals

as they limp

and wheel down main street.

The glares of both the veterans and

the soldiers are filled with contempt

when they look at unmarried men

of draft age

ignoring the festivities and

going about their daily business.

The soldiers say they are fighting

to defend me

but given the chance

they would kill me in a second.

Thankfully

they've found someone else to kill

half a world away

while I buy my carton of milk and

check out the girl at Crossovers

they say can shoot ping pong balls

out of her cunt.