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Ryan Quinn Flanagan

It was not for the cabin boy to look out
life preservers –
and a woman screamed
and then a twisted ukulele
and the wings of flightless birds
sat dishwasher still at their own deadpan
uselessness
orange monks with serene kabob heads
chimed bells, tiny bells
rung through distant mountain peaks
and there was wax
there was wax, I swear,
sticking my finger in my ear
I released all pressure.

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By Ryan Quinn Flanagan

The coffee maker is set for 5:30,
the toilet plunger works for less
than minimum wage,
and something has to be done
about the mice in the walls
between us
that scratch
and scurry
and dry hump
all the insulation
because vermin have
needs too.

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By Ryan Quinn Flanagan

The dancing bear does circus tricks,
piñatas on the cover of S&M Monthly,

and my days are filled with little more
than laying here
staring at the ceiling
waiting for the muse to arrive
with the fire.
Skipping Rosetta stones across
the backs of the ages.
There are large craters in the couch upholstery
from where the heels of my idleness
have come to rest for far too long.
I run my hands across the contours
of another wasted moon landing

and wait
for it to get dark.

The dancing bear mauls a midget,
shadows dance across my walls;

sometimes a foxtrot
never a waltz.

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