Bildungsroman, No!
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About this ebook
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.
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.
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Book preview
Bildungsroman, No! - Ryan Quinn Flanagan
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