Frisco Never Had It. By Ryan Quinn Flanagan

I know this will be 

doomsday unpopular,

but Ferlinghetti was a publisher

who always imagined himself 

the writer.

Got in bed with the word,

then jumped out as soon as things

became serious.

And that way he treated Brautigan.

Poo pooing humour like a dirty leper

over that warm dance floor Frisco face

he imagined on the cover 

of Time Magazine.

Back to Brautigan because it all begins there.

Saying he had to grow up and get serious,

never seeing the joke of the times.

When flowers in the hair 

would end up injecting speed

and mystery pregnant, 

going to work like all the rest.

This lie is an American one.

Built from the sound up.

Each carful vowel of dragging consonant 

playing politician for the 

human theatre.

Enough ushers 

to lead your truth back out 

onto the street.

No trouble in the half-hungry way

you stalk through Koreatown.

Barbecue on the fingers

so that you lick and wipe

and smell your way into drunken 

sexpot oblivion.

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.