Jailhouse Confessions
are not as rare
as one would think
after the guilt and want
of freedom
and unscrupulous snitches
looking for less time
all conspire to expedite
the process
and the guards
that don’t leave bruises
and the warden/mayor
up for re-election
so incarceration can remain
privatized and turn a healthy profit
locking more and more away
so the others all have jobs
and then there are the
mentally ill bused in
to 3000% capacity
after the hospitals closed
confessing to anything
put in front of them
so the books can be cleared
and none of the men.
Gullible Fish Pulled from Ancient Streams Again
The heightsean dizzy,
no wonder the dead don’t come up for air,
I haven’t been marginalized since they stopped scrawling
rolling bookshop indecencies in all the margins;
it’s a barn cat’s dust and greying beards of scraggle,
bedroom symphonies to fallen basement gods,
itching nefarious ivy, questions of biological enhancement,
the yang and the ying in sudden quizzical agreement:
boney dino exhibits, mason jar pantries, gullible fish pulled
from ancient streams again…
the reason he has not called is because the telephone
has not been invented in any real sense,
the ear piece hearing only what it wants to hear
while the mouthpiece tries to get elected;
it’s wires crossed off the list,
electrical flim flams in the stumbling cross-eyed zeitgeist,
that measly way the swear jar over the fridge never gives back,
munition dumps full of old arguments you never won,
dispatchers of drones working their way back out of the hive;
I’ve never seen a Minotaur, food trucks are just bulls with wheels
and a single horn…
Scratchy records from discount mountain tops,
the air so thin it must be dieting.
Ryan Quinn Flanagan is a Canadian-born author residing in Elliot Lake, Ontario, Canada with his wife and mounds of snow. His work
can be found both in print and online in such places as: Evergreen Review, The New York Quarterly, The Rye Whiskey Review, The Dope Fiend Daily, Red Fez, and
The Oklahoma Review
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