March 2-8, 2015: Ryan Quinn Flanagan and C.S. Fuqua

The Arm Wrestlers
of Azerbaijan

sit in shallow trenches
daring one
another.

Shooting at mud slung rats
and taking turns
at the pisser.

………..The enemy is somewhere
out there,
almost by mistake,
as the arm wrestlers of Azerbaijan
line up grip to grip
elbow to elbow

#ffffffand put
money down
on the
winner.

Sometimes
sitting for hours,
grunting and posturing
like circling
tigers.

Where the Squirrels Gather Nuts
like the Madhouse

Think of the fields
where broken clavicles
are buried,
severed hands
without arms
still jerking off
to the
afterlife,
think of boxes of wood
and heads
of stone

of flowers
well on their way
to wilting.

Dimming Wit

It’s now the fad
of misspelled words,
intentional and not,
to be as accepted as ain’t.
I knew a man whose wife
never talked to him,
but who e-mailed constantly
to people she’d never met.
Then his phone chimed
with text one day
and he read divorce.
In the psychologist’s office,
two women whine
while thumbing words
to the targets of their complaints
via OMG-gadgets.
The constant beeping
in their palms
proves incessant,
and I begin a silent wager
on how long it will take
their damn thumbs to
fall off.

Siblings

Rob sure wished his kids —
two by different mothers —
would visit him.
They showed up at the funeral,
meeting for the first time,
grown and expecting more
than the cancer had allowed Rob to leave.
I didn’t attend, so I can’t say
how they got on or why they even attended.
Rob left nothing for his kids,
unlike my father who’ll leave enough
for his wife’s children and me to fight over,
but I won’t.
I refuse.
I want nothing,
and I’ve told him.
When the time comes,
I’ll tell his adopted brood as well.
Unlike Rob’s kids,
I’ve met my paper siblings
far too many times
to want to again.
They’ll be happy.
I know.