Poetry: Selections From Ryan Quinn Flanagan

The Sad Man

 

The sad man

will never tell you

about the flowers.

 

He will hold doors,

expecting a sudden brush

past.

 

And those silences,

what is a man

if not the sum of his

many noises?

 

The face of the sad man

will always lead you

back down off

the mountain.

 

 

 

Locum

 

The locum came up from the city 

and seemed to know what he was doing.

The nurses all stood shocked behind their 

handsome blue masks.

 

The phone tried to look busy 

calling itself and ringing.

 

Instruments had been sterilized, 

the patient would likely survive this time.

 

This was not how things were done.

A great anger went through the building.

 

The orderlies wanted to race gurneys

down the hall.

 

The winner usually got to punch the other

in the arm a few times real hard.

 

No one took an extra lunch.

Extra marital sex in the staff bathroom 

ceased completely.

 

It was new and different and therefore

wholly unacceptable.

The locum would be gone in a few months.

 

No one was sure 

they could wait that long.

 

 

 

White Tennis Shoes

 

hung from the hydro lines

so you know you can get cocaine

in this neighbourhood 

 

even if you are just passing through

not wanting any cocaine 

or tennis,

 

but the shoes are there

and the boarded-up flops 

with local gang taggings

 

and those skinny ghetto cats 

with half the whiskers missing

that stop to look back you 

with straight murder 

 

as though you have been 

following them for 

many hours.

 

 

 

Score

 

Scoring a movie has to last for hours

in a way it is not so necessary 

in a more personal sense.

The longer the better! 

I hear the many bedroom women 

all clamouring, and you can definitely see

their side of things, but anything past the fifteen-minute mark,

feel free to drop the hammer.

But don’t forget foreplay: fingers, sucking,

kissing…very important.

Think of it in terms of pre-production.

You wouldn’t just shoot the movie without running lines,

choosing a location, building sets, hair and makeup, 

acquiring the necessary funding etc.

And then there’s the score, the miracles of post-production.

They make or break a movie and will do much 

the same for you.

 

 

 

On the Clock

 

He says 

he is quitting his job

in the city,

telling that bearded gingerbread fucker 

with a name no one can pronounce

where to go next Tuesday 

and we celebrate 

because his job is shit,

buying the rounds 

for the rest of the day

knowing our jobs are shit as well,

but at least we have them,

and that this one is on the clock

and will really have to lie and whore 

himself out for the next 30 days

so his landlord doesn’t toss him

and begin the great couch surfing 

extravaganza all over 

again.

 

 

 

Going Home Alone

 

She hits the bars.

Excepts drinks from strange men.

Walks home in the dark.

Keeps turning around, 

hoping someone will 

surprise her.

 

Not that she wants to be robbed or raped outright,

but she wants to feel alive.

 

Wanted.

Desired.

Before she has to be back at work

on Monday.

 

Going home alone has gotten to her.

She turns around, but there is no 

one there.

 

 

 

 

 

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, Horror Sleaze Trash, Rusty Truck, Red Fez, Fixator Press and The Oklahoma Review. He enjoys listening to the blues and cruising down the TransCanada in his big blacked out truck.