Flea Market. by Ryan Quinn Flanagan

She opens her legs

and I walk into a sprawling flea market

of vendors and kiosks and collusion

watches with fake snakeskin bands

discount clothing racks

the burned spoils of modern piracy,

an Indian man catches my eye

and tries to interest me in a wood carving

that looks like something you might wake up

in bed with on a head full of acid

$4, he says, holding four fingers up in the air

to make his point

I shake my head no and walk into the backside

of this humongous hobbling woman

who is so well insulated that she does not

even feel the intrusion,

and there are fortune tellers as well

and a place where you can buy bars of fudge

and a couple kids buying fake ids

that wouldn’t even work on the blind;

it is discount pandemonium, the tin roof

ready to fall in at any moment,

and those eye rings so your fingers can stare

back at you, I decide to leave,

a voice behind me as she closes her legs:

“Please come again”

Ryan Quinn Flanagan is a male gigolo for hire.  Presently residing along the sunny shores of Guantanamo Bay, Cuba where he spends his days drinking discount Tequila and accusing chemtrails of being "sky farts."  His work can be found both in print and online in such joints as: The Rye Whiskey Review, The Dope Fiend Daily, Outlaw Poetry Network, Horror Sleaze Trash, and Under The Bleachers.