Poem for a Man Who Can’t Stop Attending
Funerals
Youth is a privilege no one seems to
understand
until it is too late or already
happened and here comes
this gimpy army of white hairs working
his way up the back nine,
so that I stop off for some pocket
change lunch with
fizzy fountain soda and sit down to
write this poem
for a man who can’t stop attending
funerals;
all his friends dead or dying, now the
young have joined in,
overdoses. Standing behind those dark
aviator sunglasses,
hands folded expressionless as the
family sobs out another
chicken scratch tribute, and later a
few drinks alone
trying to remember all the faces and
voices he has forgotten
like the simple rust of old fire
escapes that are always coming down.
South Chennai, 1997
Correspondent’s
Brief
The mascot has changed names.
Still serving spirits from the grand
beyond.
The journo ranks have thinned out
to a few mangy dogs.
See you in the bar Thursday!
Otto has all the best gossip
and no one to believe it.
Personally, I prefer Madras.
But you can’t skin a cobra
with a butter knife
as they say in the administrative
ranks.
Caste system still in effect.
The dailies are drinking straight
from the bottle now.
Pumpkin
Spice Gangsters
On a long enough timeline,
everyone is exposed.
And for some, such humilities are
immediate.
Even if not suddenly realized.
And I pull into the corner convenience
with the burnt out sign
and some burnout surfer type
manning the cash.
Jump out of my car
and walk up to this group of
pumpkin spice gangsters.
Blocking the doorway
and blowing vape smoke
everywhere.
Puffing their hairless chests out
like Thanksgiving turkeys.
I catch a whiff of the pumpkin spice.
Is
it October already?
The pumpkin spice gangster closest
the overturned garbage can is first to
break character.
It’s
only July!
I hear a feeble voice come.
They have failed
and the Red Sea parts.
The leader of this faltering
enterprise
hits the other on the chest.
A woman walks up
and they all get back in character.
She just pushes her way past them.
Bitch!
the tall one yells.
Still
October?
I say walking out of the store
and back to my car.
No one says anything
this time.
What if Meditation is Just Lazy People Being
Smart?
What if the Pyramids are just giant
cat toys for the Sphinx to play with?
You have so many notions that escape a
fine man of letters that it’s an
alphabet soup on top of one
another. Nothing but the slaughterhouse
keeps the pigs from squealing. A call to arms along Bullshit Road.
No use floating around an idea. Just write that damn book titled:
Hammer
Head Sharks Are Down Syndrome Tuna and Other Tales
of
the Ocean Deep.
Everyone will hate you anyways, may as well get
a head-start. If you’re looking for upstairs, it isn’t
downstairs –
that is about as philosophical as
trench foot ever gets in this muddy
suffocating battle of attrition. Don’t be the first, the lead car always
gets it from all sides. A pie eating contest full of enemy lead which
makes
me think the many false starts are on
purpose. What if meditation
is just lazy people being smart? An excuse for general inactivity?
No use blowing your wad after Miss
Jane Russell has left the building.
Some sweetheart deal from the state
that doesn’t involve holes in the socks.
Each time your heart begins to race,
you are a teddy bear being tossed
in the air by a laughing child. Hookers sold as “room service with
lipstick”
if you’ll agree to testify. Turkish delights if you are ever in flighty
brown Ankara.
The markets visiting you and your
buying power as much as you
and your wallet ever visit the
markets. It is always advantage someone,
like in tennis. The game of games on the line. Which is how you know
you are standing at the base of some
grade school science fair
baking soda volcano. Punched out cigarettes and a cloud of ash.
All things build upon each other like
some stinking last slag pile
you once called friends before you
finally knew.
Jealous Water
If
you were so serious about quitting drinking,
then
what the hell was water
doing
at your house last night?
I sneered.
She had nothing to say to that,
seemed confused.
I could tell she was being deceptive.
The water ran out of the tap,
so that I had caught them
in the act.
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.
No comments:
Post a Comment