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, Impspired Magazine, GloMag, Red Fez, and The Oklahoma Review.
Complete the circle, the roundabout
wheels behind wheels, the gears of a long-addled mind; complete the circle, the roundabout, bum smokes from that misshapen storehouse of ears, pulling barrel-chested lighter right from the glowing tangibles below the dash, angle into traffic, remember your school years geometry, how the hypotenuse was always doing something, like the hands of a union bricklayer, painted street walkers leaning into strange cars – the last time I was on about something, blooded boys came back from sugar water foxhunt matinees; the name on the marquee, a phonebook irregular pulled right from the cheap seats, a newly diminished ball of string; no love in this land or for it which by lesser love still carries falcon back to fowler.
Chipped Beige Particle Board Shed
There is someone living in there that is not wildlife or various gardening implements, in that chipped beige particle board shed, a single folding chair and plastic table out front, ashtray full of punch drunk cigarettes, the sporadic sound of a tattoo gun when I pass, both abode and business it seems, and a gathering of all those curled shed shavings at the top of the drive; an overgrown lot like this coarse scraggle-tuft of beard… a disappearing act from the once youthful well-spring, this twisting onslaught of general weedom: quantitative, rife, uncalculated as a papercut.
Out of any slacking proportion, out of the never cresting valleys do I spot the unquestioned droves, the fire water trottings of how the glow in the dark some times survive, not a broken branch tracker in sight; the crass billet lady on the sauce again, shooing cats with a tattered straw broom and callous tongue, this hooting owl woman twisting her neck to find imaginary infractions, in droves, come by numbers; a single insignificant bite that never draws blood, scratching this naked arm, the blighted atonal surface.