I Am Tired of Hearing about the Underground

                                                         

I am tired of hearing about the underground.

Like there are moles under the marble flooring

feeling their way through the darkness.

It is the written word.

Yes, it is a tough racket.

But all this nonsense about shit eating alligators

down in the sewers.

And the way some embrace it.

Like the guy who pounds spikes through his nose

for the travelling circus.

Give me a press that strives.

Never at the expense of itself,

but with dreams large enough to

fall out of love with.

Malta

The mail comes

and she asks me

do you know anyone

in Malta?

No, I say.

Well you got a package from Malta,

it looks weird.

Did you piss someone off in Malta?

It looks like one of those packages

full of anthrax.

I stand back and tell her to open it.

It’s taped shut, she says.

That’s to keep the powder inside,

I say.

Then she tells me the good news is that

the antibiotic she on right now

is the one they use for anthrax.

When she opens the package,

a single slim volume of poetry

falls out.

I am one of the contributors.

I guess I do know someone in Malta,

I say.                    

She keeps looking down into the empty

envelope as those she is disappointed

there is nothing else.

One of Micheline’s (for Brenton Booth)

this

no bullshit wordsmith

from down under

started this

no bullshit magazine

called The Asylum Floor

and he

got in touch with

Jack Micheline’s son

who said

he could look

through his father’s paintings

and choose one

for the cover of the second

issue, which may not

be a big deal

in the circles you travel,

but you can bet

your ass

it’s like Mardi Gras

in these

parts.

Words on a Flyleaf

Anyone can put words, but what are the right words?

I pause to think of something poignant and come up with nothing.

Something sincere, we have had enough nincompoop

witty already.  But what to say… 

And it hardly helps that the receiver of said sentiments

is standing over your shoulder the entire time waiting to see

what you write.  A man should not suffer performance

anxiety from signing a book, but that is what is happening here.

And you can see your very skill as a wordsmith questioned,

the look on the face saying: if a man can’t write a few words

down on a flyleaf, how the hell did he write the book?

Did he write the book?  His name is on it, but that doesn’t mean

anything these days.  People put their names on everything

without even thinking.  And each time pen approaches paper,

it gets a little quieter in the room.  As though you are a groundhog

that mustn’t be spooked lest their be six more weeks of winter.

And pen touching paper finally, I dash something off. 

What a ridiculous fool I am.  Smudging my hand in a silly

black ink that won’t come off.

I Don’t Write in Closets

I’ve been told I couldn’t write my way out of closet

which is fine with me because I don’t write

in closets.

That would be weird.

All those white dress shirts

hanging above you like

lazy bedsheets

after the clan.

Which reminds me,

critics are flies to the manure pile

that is their thesaurus.

Looking for ever colorful ways

to drag a fishing line behind the boat

of popular opinion.

Hoping someone will sink

thinking that means they have

finally come up for air.

Ryan Quinn Flanagan