The Unofficial History of Fast Food

The witches of Salem
were flame broiled
on a sesame seed
bun

while you went through the drive-thru
demanding extras packets
of ketchup.

The citizens of Dresden were
deep fried
alive

and I won't tell you
of the unspeakable horrors
that went into making

the gravy.

The bathrooms are clean
and the condiments
restocked

and no one would be the wiser
if I wasn't here
telling you this

right now.

- Ryan Quinn Flanagan

(featured in the poetry forum 02.10.10)

Rudolf Hess Lives Down by Market Square

A girl I went with for a time
in Victoria
was into anything wiccan
and kept jars full of roots
and dried animals
in a cupboard
over the sink.

Whenever I said anything was wrong
she lit some candles
consulted her Master Book of Herbalism
she had purchased down at Market Square
and concocted a rancid smelling brew
that always made me sick
upon ingestion.

When she converted to Buddhism
she replaced all her candles
with wooden Buddha head carvings,
threw out all her mystery jars,
and told me that guided reflection
was the way to go.

Once I reflected on why I had stayed with her
so long,
I finally came to my senses
and decided to go.

I now hear through the grapevine
that when Buddhism didn't cut it
she switched to yoga
and when yoga ran its course
she became a skinhead.

Attending rallies in her Doc Martens
and spending a small fortune
on razors.

- Ryan Quinn Flanagan

(added 02.10.10)

The Mail

The mailwoman started leaving my mail
at the end of the driveway
after she peered through my front window
and saw me naked
with a garden hose
watering my rug
             
to the Sounds of the 80s.
             
Mail service grew sporadic
after I placed a "Beware of Goldfish" sign
on my front door
and she caught me de-boning some raw Atlantic salmon
with my teeth
adorned in yellow tights
a superman cape
and a 14 inch boning knife.
             
Mail delivery stopped altogether
when she discovered me naked
and passed out face down
in a blow up swimming pool
in my living room
with whipped cream swirls
on both cheeks of my ass
and a signed Menudo poster
strewn over the couch arm.
 
I now have to go down to the post office
to collect my mail.
 
Apparently,
some people scare easily.

- Ryan Quinn Flanagan

(featured in the poetry forum 12.27.09)

Mixed Messages

The latest apartment
I've moved into
is loaded with personality.

The whore who lived here last
left three keys to nearby motels
in the linen closet
and carved the word DIE
in the front door.

It was okay as long as
she used the motels
but a neighbour ratted her out
when she worked from home.

There are some interesting stains
on the bedroom wall
under fluorescence
but the word DIE
carved in the front door
takes the cake.

I was thinking about getting
a WELCOME mat
to send
mixed messages
and
watch the mailman

flounder with
indecision.

- Ryan Quinn Flanagan

(featured in the poetry forum 11.11.09)

Asking for Directions

When I was a kid,
parents
teachers
and community leaders
taught me to never approach the car
of someone asking for directions
because they likely wanted to abduct
molest
and possibly kill me.

It was not until I was driving around
completely lost
years later
that I realized the absurdity
of such claims.

Regardless of whether I asked children
or adults for directions,
in the span of two hours
I had seven people run away
four called me a pedophile outright
two a killer
and one shrieking woman beat the trunk of my car
with a stick.

Thank god
I didn’t stop off at the convenience store
for some candy
for the road trip
as I had planned to do.

I’d probably be serving a life sentence now
and I still wouldn’t

have directions.

Ryan Quinn Flanagan

(featured in the poetry forum 09.21.09)