Gorky’s Cathedrals
Cathedrals of the city,
that is what Gorky called the many fire hydrants
he would pass in the street.
Ascribing meaning and texture,
the artist’s eye brought to everything.
I’m surprised surly New York
never got to him,
always how and when he wished
to see it.
An acrobat
of such fine delusions.
How far out
do you plan on treading
against the twisting
tides?
I sit
at the back of the house
wondering how the front
of the house
is doing
and if this makes me paranoid
or overly sensitive
in some way
then you’re counting
porcupines
instead of
quills.
Net of Lemons
The fridge almost empty again,
it is hard to not grow sour.
A single net of lemons.
Pushed back by better options
and forgotten on the second shelf.
The yellow netting
every bit as cowardly and sad
as the failing fruit within.
And I stand over the sink.
Squeeze out the last dried dregs
into the bottom of a single malt glass.
Thrown back without toast.
That deep copper mine way I wince with a pain
everyone can remember.
Standing
in this change
room
trying on many
slim fit shirts
that don’t fit
as half-naked children
run around
trying to open
all the doors
not realizing
their future
is just
on the other
side.
What I love
about
Detroit
is that it never
once
tries to be
Paris,
only itself,
which is all
we can
ever
do.
Sub Par
The submarines are on shore leave.
Playing a round of golf in checkered pants
that hide their torpedoes.
The submarines are taller than you would think
when they stand up on end.
Waiting for their turn at the tee.
Looking to break even on a difficult Par 4.
Tiny pencils to keep score.
A friendly wager or two before the 6th green.
While the rest of the submarines are off patrolling the oceans.
With sonar ears and gangly periscope eyes.
Waiting for their shore leave.
An opportunity to hit the links.
Your
life can be in park
even if you don’t drive
that is what
they never tell you
once they get
around to not telling
you things.
Steve Jobs
ate his food raw
and would always lease a car
for 6 months
because anything longer
required a license and registration
under California law
so that every six months
Steve Jobs would drop off his car
at the dealership
and drive a new one
off the lot
behind that steering wheel
that had just been waiting
for its turn at the helm.
Question
What’s wrong with losing your mind?
You may find it all over again.
And never in the way or place
they told you.
Ryan Quinn Flanagan is a Canadian-born author residing in Elliot Lake, Ontario, Canada with his wife and many bears that rifle though his garbage. His work can be found both in print and online in such places as: Evergreen Review, The New York Quarterly, SynchronizedChaos, Literary Yard, Red Fez, and The Oklahoma Review.