Bildungsroman, No!

By Ryan Quinn Flanagan

Ryan Quinn Flanagan is a native of Barrie, ON; a city known for the tornado of 1985 and little else. He presently resides in Elliot Lake, Ontario, Canada under ten feet of snow with a nurse who drives a big blacked out truck. His work can be found both in print and online. He has an affinity for dragonflies, discount tequila, and all things sarcastic.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Leaf Garden Press
• Release date: May 19, 2015
• ISBN: 9781310047442

Ryan Quinn Flanagan

Ryan Quinn Flanagan is a native of Barrie, ON; a city known for the tornado of 1985 and little else. He presently resides in Elliot Lake, Ontario, Canada under ten feet of snow with a nurse who drives a big blacked out truck. His work can be found both in print and online. He has an affinity for dragonflies, discount tequila, and all things sarcastic.

Book preview

It’s the Stigmata

I’m telling you,

look at this, the wounds of the Nazarene…

it’s a cold sore, I say,

you have herpes.

But I speak in tongues,

how can that be?

You slur your words when you’re drunk,

just because they sound like new words

that’s hardly speaking in tongues.

FLOWERS, he screams

like he was shot out of a cannon,

I always smell flowers;

they say that signifies the holy presence…

how do you explain the smell of flowers?

That’s fabric softener, jackass,

now are you still dropping me at the bus terminal

this morning

or not?

The Sandwich Artist

I wish I was a train robber instead of a grocery store clerk.

That hold up men outnumbered paperboys

10-to-1.

I wish the sandwich artist at the Hillside Plaza

with the hairnet and beard guard

would not have to hide his many tattoos.

Working the graveyard at the Subway

owned by the rich Indian family

from the city.

A Spanish bull defeated,

dragged out into the arena of Life

like a trophy.

By the cash

I look for something.

After the catwalk of squeeze bottle condiments

I long for some reaction.

That lowered head of defiance,

that last hoof in the dirt

dung-snorting spark.

Instead of the over-friendly parolee –

more familiar with dropped soap and the five dollar foot long

than any man should be -

asking if I’d like it on white or brown,

if I’d like extra pickles or olives

(free of charge) -

smiling all the while -

like any of this ever

mattered.

One for the Motherland

The Russians put a dog in space

and you can’t even refill the ice trays.

My god, what is it with you and the Russians?

Always the goddamn Russians:

did you bed down with Brezhnev during the 70s?

paint your nails Bolshevik red?

perform fellatio on 2/3rds

of the Politburo? -

That’s a majority, sweetheart,

a greedy fat-cat imperialist majority –

see, now you’re getting angry,

let’s not fight anymore…

Be a good comrade

and fix us some

dinner.

Head Colds

in the Age of Creation

Ever look down into the tissue after blowing your nose

and been impressed?

I know you have, no use denying it.

Look at the person next to you – they have too.

Felt that overwhelming sense of accomplishment that comes

with expelling something so thick and yellow

and otherworldly.

Don’t be ashamed, you should be proud.

You created that:

not a Matisse, this is true,

but it’s chunky and abundant

and yours.

Something honest and heartfelt,

from the very bowels of your being.

When you flush it away

there will be an overwhelming

sense of loss.

Like all those childhood goldfish

gone belly up.

Some of you may even have taken

to naming your creation,

playing it hours of Baby Einstein,

started saving for a college fund.

Do not feel embarrassed or alone,

we all do it.

The one that shot out of my left nostril early this morning

was black and laced with blood

and had first team All-American

written all over

it.

Nothing Can Dissuade You

Hell, it’s your sacred franchise:

not the hubby who tells you it’s all hooey,

he’s just oppressing you

a prison of patriarchy

all that jazz…

I do believe that’s the

party line;

not higher taxes

or heuristic pleas

or the historical record

not the loss of jobs

or lies and fraud

nor even your better sense…

not even the greasy used car salesman

slithering door to door

with something to pin on your lapel

who requires just a few moments

of your time

can dissuade you.

Come hell

or high water

you are going to vote

for some asshole

in the next election

who is going to break

his many promises

to you

and then you will be

surprised

again.

800 People

Did you see that, I said

the statue of liberty just farted.

It looked like a car engine backfiring

a plume of blue smoke.

A real stinker, can you smell that?

With flatulence like that, no wonder

the French shipped her off.

Doesn’t she look like she belongs

at English boarding school?

Somewhere in the midlands,

engaging in pillow fights

and teaching the other girls

how to French kiss?

The secret is in rolling the tongue.

Don’t roll your ankle, I’m not suggesting that.

Don’t roll your car in a ditch

unless you have a thing for the jaws of life.

800 people – that’s my theory:

for any given fetish

(no matter how debauched

and obscure)

you can go on the internet

and find 800 people partaking.

Try it some time.

Think of the most odd and depraved thing you can conceive

then google it

and you will see what

I mean.

You don’t say much, do you,

I asked,

the strong silent type

then?

The park bench sat there strong and silent.

Never saying a word.

I knew it would never break under torture –

that putting out cigarettes on it was useless,

so I got down on all fours

(in the rain)

and tried to

relate.

Carjack

Two younger boys –

maybe six or

seven –

sit in one of those red plastic

wheelie cars

in the road.

Another boy

(a few years older)

stands over them

brandishing a black toy gun

with one of those yellow sticky darts with the red end

that shoots out

of it.

I hear them as I unload my groceries.

This is