By Ryan Quinn Flanagan

In your mind you have no neighbor.

The heart is another matter, almost demands as much.

I have run sand though my fingers and never once think of the beach.

That is how an illusionist escapes his days.  The expansiveness of sweating.

Thumbing down traffic with a large foamy finger from the ball park. Believing Kandinsky put out on canvas just as Picasso saved himself like a roll of pennies.

His simple dove of peace cloistered in a busy Moscow sky.

Movement is a funny thing if you disbelieve the careful acumen of shoelaces.

The sky is all pasticcios to me.  The shelling of the Somme so Sassoon could shake like a Jello mold.

I keep my hair short these day, and my temper much the same.

A picture of Tallulah Bankhead pasted to the back stairwell.

What atrocities we commit when others are trying.


Ryan Quinn Flanagan is a Canadian-born author residing in Elliot Lake, Ontario, Canada with his other half and many mounds of snow.


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