Poetry by Ryan Quinn Flanagan

​Grindhouse


​The grindhouse
was what we called the local
slaughterhouse
long before it became
a popular film genre
term
 
and each time my parents
bought ground meat
I tried not to think
of the animals
 
that went into dinner
 
the blood against the plastic
as the cashier rang it
through.
 
As I get older,
things don’t bother me
so much.
 
There is life
and then there is death
and the world goes
on.
 
But Tarantino can’t take credit
for this one.
 
The slaughterhouse was there
long before him
and it will be there
long after him
as well.



 
Skunk Drunk
 
I told him
he should make
a jailbreak
which is a hell
of a thing
to say to someone
that doesn’t know
they are incarcerated,
but I was skunk drunk
and mean
coming off three straight twelves
largely sleepless
and looking to prance
the flea collars out of
televised dog shows,
and the face he gave me
at first
as though he were
a contestant on a
game show
who didn’t have the answer
but knew he had to
say something
and the way I shrugged
my shoulders
and walked off
knowing it was not one
of my finest moments
or his.

Bio: Ryan Quinn Flanagan is a Canadian-born author residing in Elliot Lake, Ontario, Canada with his wife and many bears that rifle through his garbage.  His work can be found both in print and online in such places as: Evergreen Review, The New York Quarterly, Anti-Heroin Chic, In Between Hangovers, Red Fez, and The Oklahoma Review.

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