Deck Chair
Someone
had made an unfavourable remark
and
I was pretty sure it was this smug comfortable bastard
from
the Adirondacks,
constant
looks of contempt body slamming
me
right down into the frontal lobe
and
that laugh that came next, this chair
on
the back deck was really asking for it
and
composure never really being my thing,
I
balled up my fists and dug a punch deep into its gut,
followed
quickly by another right to the kisser;
a
great roar went up from nobody’s crowd
and
crawled into my ear as I decked the bloody fool again
and
moved in for the knockout.
Apologies,
Zephyr!
No
highly touted moon landing for you. The
dark side of the moon may sell in villainous crunchy Tinseltown, but the last
flight out of Saigon left over forty-five years ago. Only thing left to do now is check your
oxygen intake to make sure the trees are still holding up their end of the
bargain. When fast food is not fast,
people grow vocal. It is the one thing
that is promised and the first thing to go.
I can’t remember the last time I wasn’t lied to. The “new normal” I hear, I hate that
term. Like regurgitating into the mouths
of amateur birdwatchers and expecting all the damn tweety-birds over at Disney
to spit shine their sit in trees like silly squirrel binoculars until Jesus
returns from Denny’s twenty pounds overweight with toast crumbs all through his
beard. What I love about hate is that it
lasts forever even though it is often inconsequential as an impound yard glove
compartment. Something to hold onto
while the simple green balloon of your dreams sails away.
Hands
On
The
cybernetics department was always the last
to
know about changes.
The
hands were already on when the required
alterations
came through.
Each
hand had to be removed with the utmost care.
The
artificial intelligence had already begun to adapt.
The
being had consciousness and no hands.
Never
an ideal situation, even if you are not human.
There
is cutting edge and then there is inventing the knife.
Quarterly
profits had gone up since profits began.
But
still, there was a sentient being standing before them:
language,
feelings, no hands.
Mustard
Lip
She
has a napkin to wipe.
The
juice from city center street meat
exploding
with each bite.
She,
with mustard lip,
and
me with my ever-green
pickle
and relish concoction.
We
have both gone for the shredded cheese
even
though it has sat in clumps
for
many hours under the dry summer heat.
And
later by the waterfront,
we
try to guess which ships are bringing in
the
illegal drugs.
Both
choosing the ones with less obvious names.
Usually
after women you could imagine curling their hair
or
kneading bread for the next family function.
All
with fresh paint jobs.
My
arm around her long before bike paths
have
become a thing.
Just
us and the many drugs
we
know are coming in.
Throwing the Game
The
game had been a snoozer
and
I crumpled it up in boredom’s waiting clammy hands
before
heading outside where the wind can
be
heard like old Cab Calloway records
and
I practiced my wind up many times,
really
stepping into it,
a
running start before throwing the game
as
far as I could
while
tiny glowing eyes scurried off
under
cover of darkness
and
the stars in the sky just sat there
as if giving dictation.
Ryan Quinn Flanagan is a Canadian-born author residing in Elliot Lake, Ontario, Canada with his wife and many bears that rifle through his garbage. His work can be found both in print and online in such places as: Evergreen Review, The New York Quarterly, The Rye Whiskey Review, Red Fez, and The Oklahoma Review
No comments:
Post a Comment