George Foreman Grill
Her aunt has moved in up the street.
And we borrow her George Foreman grill.
The missus swears by it and I just swear.
Not too often, just enough to make my point.
Like drilling for oil and stopping when you find it.
Anything extra is just showmanship.
And the old German across the way
got drunk and started driving recklessly
and now they’ve deported his mail order bride.
One more thing made in China.
The first time the cops were on him,
it was for the cameras he had installed
pointing at his neighbour’s hot tub.
Now his license is suspended
and he has to tug his own tuba.
What a mess we all get ourselves into.
Burst water mains that never learned to swim.
The last time I went to the zoo
all the animals were drugged.
It was like paying to watch heroin addicts with fur.
A few toppling over like ancient ruins
so the crowds snap a picture.
Waking themselves up periodically
and looking around like the many nodders
on the subway.
People in Large Groups
Make Me Think of Public
sound like crying
by other means.
I carve a half moon into the couch cushion
and wait for night.
People in large groups
make me think of public
It is that kind of uneasiness.
Sitting in parked cars
waiting for the lines in the street
to do away with themselves.
When I scratch my head
it feels like excavation.
As though I am that much closer
to water on the brain.
The scalp peels away like stickers.
A large cheer goes up
from the collection of people
on the other side of
Something must have happened.
I am relieved that I have missed it.
Ironed shirts have always looked
like demolition sites
Another roar from the crowd.
The arena is demanding
Evel Knievel Would Never Be Your Bank Teller
The New York to London has bedbugs.
Heathrow wont catch them because they aren’t looking.
There is a list of Terror suspects like reading out morning roll call.
As stupid as that sounds.
That is all they have.
Though I give them credit for the sexy name.
The Cobra committee.
Sounds lethal and immediate and final.
The truth should never get in the way of a smashing name.
Evel Knievel would never be your bank teller.
Wondering how to better serve you today.
It is all in the name.
The rest of it
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, RASPUTIN, Blue Mountain Review, Red Fez, and The Oklahoma Review.