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.