Let’s Be Clear, 60 Atmospheres 

 
A sheath-less sword, so much more than the tip, the hilt, 
that orgy basket of rangy berries by the side of seldom seen roads 
and let’s be clear, 60 atmospheres on the cagey sky prowl, 
that pinch of ruthless talon, predatory visions for days; 
the more I see of the world, the less I like it, 
that welcoming cranial dim I feel,  
the radiant lost to radiation burns that make me squint  
like hasty closures of a clam brought together,  
that briny gassed long-haul trucker cab of denim squalor; 
the ripped yellow shipper’s manifest more about what  
will manifest when the truck shows on the other end  
rather than the sloppy lot lizard hours of weary unroadworthy shipping involved,
the many gravy-soaked meatloaf miles: 
slamming my mouth up against repurposed phones, 
all these atmospheres like the ultimate protection racket: 
my greasy sideburns always living on an angle, 
tipping all the best waitresses out in exo-space 
for all the worst infractions.

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Ryan Quinn Flanagan
Picture Nick Victor

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