Three Poems by Ryan Quinn Flanagan

Memory

It’s memory, they say,

the brain cap secure and work///ing
seven armadillos in momma’s bottled cats[up]
the charm of a Frisco trolley.

It’s memory on the cheap,

neurons for sale
look there –
don’t you see it?

memory    memory    memory

I (re)member the tiny scampering universe
child prostitutes taking it in the rump
on Taiwanese beaches

look –
more memories…

you can catch them
if you’re fast.

<<
no memories for me.

>>>Laying here
in the dark
in green socks.

My brain stem
like a l-o-n-g and hungry
flower.

Cry Me N

          **Slippery little tadpole

of a thing
through my hands
                    sure as winter
candy apple sticky
       a tiny )))Oppenheimer
on the end:

            women to right of me

            women to left of me

            women all ‘round

my slippery little

                     (((tadpole                
   into a giant frog
of t-h-r-o-b-b-i-n-g
          each time you walk
in the room          

sprite as any field
gazelle. 





A Gathering of Many Whiskered
Thoughts

               Crusaders and ginger snaps -
all things brought to grief yellow;
       superintendents whistling down lonely halls
beige overalls over the shoulders of professional mountains
high    high    high
                     rejoicing in candelabra
                     rejoicing in Milan
    rejoice      rejoice
in the frozen windpipes of suckled thunder,
                                 watch parsnips dance in bony pawnshop windows
                park benches stripped of their wooded fire
rejoice      rejoice      rejoice
there are clean glasses in the cupboard
                     and much wine to drink
and we have come together
to drink it                    
               like big cats
              >round the watering
               hole.                 



Ryan Quinn Flanagan is a wheezing asthmatic who loves short walks on the beach.  He lives deep in the Canadian Shield with his toaster over and his muse.