Ryan Quinn Flanagan
On the Clock
he is quitting his job
in the city,
telling that bearded gingerbread fucker
with a name no one can pronounce
where to go next Tuesday
and we celebrate
because his job is shit,
buying the rounds
for the rest of the day
knowing our jobs are shit as well,
but at least we have them,
and that this one is on the clock
and will really have to lie and whore
himself out for the next 30 days
so his landlord doesn’t toss him
and begin the great couch surfing
extravaganza all over
A hairless cat walked by in the body of a bald man.
Everyone hummed to themselves along jukebox road.
Felix thought of overturned shopping carts with the wheels removed.
How everyone climbed into cold beds and up even colder mountains.
The way you could see your breath and never the future.
It was geisha girls and appendectomies.
Townhouses with ridiculous pygmy yards fenced in by a sea of black iron rod.
Felix found himself humming without even thinking about it.
His fingers dancing along the side of his torn pant leg.
The impaled sky darkened, threatening to spill its guts.
A young women without shoes stood tiptoed by the mailbox.
The exposed brick running around nude under vinyl trench coats.
The uncontrolled tremor in Felix’s hand an imminent earthquake.
Covered up by the way dried chewing gum broke into song.
My big baby browns trample over vision quests
so animal they lose the journey
so that my yellow cowardly teeth fall out of ancient skulls
refusing to smile on this most partitioned of days
and the way a solid eight hours stands in for best sleep
in a supporting role, yawning arms stretched overhead
winning questionable yard sale trophies with a different name
and none of the glory, passing cars so boxy you can
read: This Side Up on all the doors which would make
safety features really happy if they actually existed
outside of that famous Frisco car chase they keep trying to duplicate
with crash test dummies that don’t have any lines
and even less talent.