Five Poems by Ryan Quinn Flanagan

 

Bob Marley Breaks into a Limbo Outside the Toyo Tires

 

Ok, so it’s not the real Bob Marley,

just some homeless dude who rides stolen bikes

in ever tighter circles, known as Bob Marley to the locals,

possibly because of the dreads and tri-coloured beanie,

seems artistic license has invaded the DMV

so that Bob Marley breaks into a limbo outside the Toyo Tires,

contorting his body across the sidewalk to fit safely

under some invisible bar no one else can see,

lower and lower each time until his balance gives out –

the mechanics on a smoke break cheering him on,

that summer asphalt smell of manganese pumping

through the city water – the wailers catcalling from cars

that speed past the Bulk Barn where the heavy girls

make up boyfriends for each other with dashing

blue blood names like Chip or William or Kenneth

that never touch themselves and pick up litter

instead of other girls.

 

Leaf Erikson

 

How do you do, Leaf Erikson?

You’ve come a long way.

 

She turns to find me talking

to a yellow maple leaf

on the ground.

 

Really?

she asks.

 

Leaf wants to know if you come

here often.

 

The street?

 

Yes.

 

I’m not doing this!

she is adamant.

 

But Leaf wants your digits,

I run after her.

He’s a real charmer if you give him a chance.

 

What happened to my husband?

she asks.

 

You sold him for a vat of cottage cheese

and three wives.

 

YOU’RE SO WEIRD!

she won’t look at me anymore.

 

Leaf wants to know if he can stay a few weeks.

Just while his longship is in being fumigated.

 

The car that rushes by has tinted windows.

 

The eclipse!

I cover my eyes and spin in circles.

I looked directly at it, now I won’t be able

to see the magnets on the fridge.

 

She is halfway up the street

when I give a quick peak.

 

Some snotty little kid

seated on the curb.

 

Burning ants with a large magnifying glass

while the green electrical box

hums its way back into nobody’s

soapy shower.

 

The Charleston Bridge Crossing

 

This is not breaching the Elba,

the crossing of the Rubicon –

this simple bridge with red barn house,

a slope of swampy banks in steep decline,

some dirty mud trick that sticks to the boots,

those gummy arms of never leaving,

mating fitches taking turns with

their downy flightless young,

and espionage happens in so many places

that you begin to disbelieve everything

you have ever heard, adjust the seat

for some fledgling piss pot back that has never

known your silly doomsday posture;

that distant spaghetti strap tip jar 

sluggery of snails without their shell:

if I could leave this museum of the flesh,

unweighted by the bruising of apples

that demand a bloody orchard!

 

The Bet

 

It was a slow day.

I bet you I can get my ass kicked

faster than you can,

said Karl.

 

Then he walked up to two roid freaks

in the gym parking lot.

 

Evening ladies,

do you have the time?

 

The roid freaks beat on Karl

and chased him away.

 

Then Shawn and Karl drove

to another gym across town.

 

Shawn walked up to a couple roid freaks

in black muscle shirts.

 

Evening ladies!

 

They beat him badly.

Karl watched from the car.

Shawn had won by a sentence.

 

What did he win?

Who can say?

 

Good Evening, from the Russian Underground

 

Perestroika

Perestroika

 

Dormez vous?

Dormez vous?

 

Sonnez les matines

Sonnez les matines

 

Brezhnev gone

Brezhnev gone.

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, Lothlorien Poetry Journal, Red Fez, and The Oklahoma Review.