by Ryan Quinn Flanagan
Blooding the Boy
blooded face
fresh from the hunt
you are a man now
like those statues
in the town square
the fox smeared across
your face
was not wily enough
you are a man now
and his virility is
yours
do not tell your mother
that the shot came from
a seasoned gun
for you are a man now
and lying is every bit
the tradition
death
is.
I
thought of the Gorgon
She had two other sisters
that lived in different cities
and I thought of the Gorgon,
of commute times and unresolved
issues over who mommy liked best,
and once on the street, strolling the
avenues
again,
again,
I looked at the buildings
and realized everything had turned
to stone.
Xebec
Set sail for Christ Church –
who cares which one,
brave the storms the same way
you endure the inner ones,
batten down the hatches
throw on a wildly ill-equipped
slicker, practice for mutiny but always
alone, follow the rats away from water,
theirs is a survivalism of traps, a
stubborn
continuance of numbers old as dirt
they will save you in a way a distress
signal will not.
Set sail for Barnacle Bay –
haemorrhoids of the sea.
When you get there
sit in harbour for three
years shooting cannon balls
at the moon.
If your aim is off you will know it.
The moon will still be there,
and the weight of anchors
too.
Fanny Packs
of wolves
devouring the waistline
back to patient
zero
a single
leather strap
to hold the universe
together
so we can sleep awhile
my arm over her middle
the curtains pulled over
and tombstone
heavy
and every bit
as dark.
The Caber Tossers
got into a tight circle
to discuss
how the competition
should go
in kilts
with the eldest one
running the caber
back up for each new attempt
after each throw
as some highlander
with a weight belt
to make sure nothing
fell back onto the crowd
of onlookers
snapping pictures
on their camera phones
behind a rope
for one weekend
in Fergus
each
August.
Buk was Right
about Fante
and his prose
read Ask the Dust
The Wine of Youth
outside of Kafka
he is the best
there is an argument to be made
for Hemingway, of course,
a strong one of personal taste
that I would not refute
or the Russians
or D.H. Lawrence
in love with all his
women
but what I like about Fante
is that he seems to be writing
about himself and for himself
at all times
showing you the battle scars
and never just the
battle.
Progress Reports Are Optional
Bring your own Botswana
bring lollygags and serendipity
I have no more outs so you may want
to get some of them
I do have insecurities, that much is
covered,
slabs of stone you can carry over broken
hilltops…
I have a woman who styles her hair like
spaghetti,
you can bring your woman if you have one
bring moats nestling rolled crocodiles into
green sleep
bring clothing so that nudity can feel
ashamed of itself
progress reports are optional, there is no
progress
anyways
leave Guam in the Southern hemisphere,
no one likes anything that sounds like bat
shit –
bring conventional weapons if you must
rustle cattle away from the farmers and
park them
in the neighbour’s driveway
bring ceramic skulls in the likeness of bog
death;
so real you touch your forehead with your
hand
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