Four Poems | by Ryan Quinn Flanagan

Y is the Only Letter of the Alphabet
That Matters
Ask it always…
There were giants
before there was arthritis
because the giants did not know of such things
each time they bent over
to smell a flower
and felt a pain.
And there were ley lines
and green dragons
too
and many things
under the sea
that knew nothing
of buoyancy
that you can read about
on microfiche
nowadays
if you are literate
and patient,
a little more curious
than the
rest.
***
The Meeting
They were Americans and they were Russians
opposite sides of a dying triangle
and they met deep in the guts of a tunnel
an abandoned mine from the war
and nobody trusted anyone
and it was dark, so they trusted even less so;
grown men remembering the monsters in closets
murder-in-wait under infant beds
how the light could save your calm,
and there ten to a side like bowling pins
guns levelled
swapping spies – one for one,
a straight exchange
and when it was over they went their separate ways
in black town cars
with skidding tires that dug
into the gravel.
***
Soaker Tubs with More Jets 
than Discount Airlines
The audience love laughers
so it is easy to pander.
To toss balls of wet toilet paper
at strange walls so that
something sticks.
You know the tropes.
Could work them like a high end escort
running the gamut.
Soaker tubs
with more jets
than discount
airlines.
The feelers of the entire
intelligence community
brought down to a single
garden slug.
And the spider is only poisonous
if you want it to be.
The snake the same.
There is a reason people climb into bathing suits
and avoid the mouth of a
man-eating crocodile.
If there is an autograph to be had,
it may as well be yours.
There is famous, and then there is cat famous.
I marvel at how people hang pictures
from walls
and never once think
of the gallows.
The bus at each stop.
A happening of money and sweat
and exhaust.
***
Reading Comics Under the Sea
in bunk beds
like we are children
again
sharing them,
like no man ever wants
to share his woman,
doing a job
and then not doing
a job
simple as that
preparing for the apocalypse,
with plenty of down
time.
***
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Ryan Quinn Flanagan is a Canadian-born author residing in Elliot Lake, Ontario, Canada with his other half and mounds of snow.  His work can be found both in print and online in such places as: Evergreen Review, The New York Quarterly, Word Riot, In Between Hangovers, Red Fez, and The Oklahoma Review.
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