She’s not atop the fence where she normally prances,
but in the shade. Her orange coat is frayed
and her dance is a dance of necromancy,
our daily offering of milk merely sulked over.
Circumspect, her muscles tense, she upchucks
some of the many treats a tabby fancies—
head, thorax, abdomen, feathers, head, head.
She laps up her milk without a meow said.
Picture the spoon
setting the table;
careful, each dish,
as only spoon’s able.
Envision the fiddler,
the cat with his bow;
his spiraling eyes
and quarter notes glow.
Gaze into the moon
traversing sky high;
it has a dark side
(let mother know why).
Tip your milk to the cow
getting ready to go;
her long trip to space
deserves its own show.
Still feel like jumping?
Make the bend in your knees.
Now laugh, little dog—
to sleep, if you please.
The Bluebird Café
Sidestepping the potentially toxic
yet exceptional crumbs of pain au chocolat,
we help ourselves to everything else.
The owner comes to empty the till.
Emma the waitress slips into her tight jeans
and into his red Italian sports car.
In the soot kicked up,
an opportune bluebird locates the last scrap
and flies it home to its nest to share.
The sparrows, each of them alone
yet not alone in their own right, bathe
in the dusty sand at the edge of the road.
The old world is dying and the new world struggles to be born.
Now is the time of monsters.
— Antonio Gramsci, Italian Marxist
The compass wanders in a myriad directions, today.
Go here, do this, do that. A bit too much to say
who controls one’s mind at rest; Google, Facebook, another text.
When the ways and means don’t compute,
the brain’s subjective wiring may not be transmitting
on the same-old, expected frequencies.
I’d like to say it’s just me, the Navigator,
as corporeal as the next guy or gal, except nobody’s always wrong.
To be or not to be, getting more tricky these days.
Some tropes require an altering of perception,
bringing life to what some other guy or gal will misconstrue.
It doesn’t have to be trumped-up and tragic, but
shit ain’t easy and the struggle for embodiment continues.
What if you awaken
What if you awaken
with a flower in your hand, and you’re frightened
and attempt to throw it away?
But no matter how
hard as hell you fling, it clings to your hand,
its buds set on staying?
And what if you find
upon examining your hand that its petals
stem from your palm caked in sand?
And what if said sand
was a part of you, no different from your hair
or your fingernails, there?
And what if upon checking
your fingernails there, rays of sunshine from fingertips
shot into the air?
And what if your lips
in a low voice suggested to go back to sleep—
would you rest your sweet head?
Originally from Denver, Brian Robert Flynn is currently breathing the fiction and poetry of Washington, DC. His writing can be found in (or is forthcoming from) Clarion, Jelly Bucket, Amsterdam Quarterly, Hobart, Cease Cows, and The Moth.