Satan’s Choice Drug Run We are driving through Blind River, on our way back from camp. Past the dragon boat races and that half-demented dentist who should have stopped pulling teeth over a decade ago. And looking to the nearest corner of the Tim Hortons parking lot, my wife and I both see them right …
Tag: Ryan Quinn Flanagan
Nov 14
Clods of Mead for the Ancient Mind by Ryan Quinn Flanagan
Clods of Mead for the Ancient Mind The world is a small place if you crawl back into the womb. When I hold my hands out, it is with a moderate disbelief more than faith. Dirty dish water after the dinner hour rush. Clods of mead for the ancient mind. Movie theatres let out into …
Jun 23
Suicide, By Cop by Ryan Quinn Flanagan
Suicide, By Cop We are on our way to the trailer. 2/3rds the way down the 108 when a line of cop cars seal off the highway in both directions. Start putting on their bulletproof vests and speaking into a megaphone to this old blue pickup that has parked itself in the middle of the …
May 15
2 poems by Ryan Quinn Flanagan
What’s In Your Coffee? (for Brian Fugett) The Ohio River is bursting at the banks. Joe Burrow hits a streaking barn burner across the middle. I pass this woman drinking in a parking lot, dressing down a happy face painted on a building across the street. And the question arises, as if from the cackling …
Apr 12
2 poems by Ryan Quinn Flanagan
Potato Man I am descended from a long line of Irish peasants, potato farmers to be more exact, working the land for English plantation owners. One peasant hooked up with the master’s daughter, the master giving his daughter an ultimatum. She chose the Irish peasant, and they were both banished to the new world. And …
Mar 15
2 poems by Ryan Quinn Flanagan
Motor Oil Through the Lemonade There is motor oil through the lemonade, razor invasion piranhas enter my field of vision, the floodlight metropolis and payola queens atop the charts – Francis Bacon spectres streaking down a treacherous canvas, that red-eyed seagull flock of swarm. Two rings of twine for a tail-eaten snake. There are craters …
Feb 10
3 poems by Ryan Quinn Flanagan
The Menace The menace is 26 oz. of smoke at birth. The menace is caged hatreds boiling. The menace is the tips of rattlesnake warnings. The menace is fallen comets dipped in paint. The menace is ugly sex faces in scream. The menace is voodoo bones for dice. The menace is comradery losing the kiddie …


