Ryan Quinn Flanagan is a Canadian-born author residing in Elliot Lake, Ontario, Canada with his wife and many bears that rifle through his garbage. His work can be found both in print and online in such places as: Evergreen Review, The New York Quarterly, Impspired Magazine, GloMag, Red Fez, and The Oklahoma Review.
Wondering Why Stained Glass Doesn’t Just Clean Up Its Act
All these people saying the world has gone crazy all the time, I figure it’s just catching up, pissing in the ice tray with raised flag pole leg, pressing the blood-flush pink back into fingernail puller absentia, wondering why stained glass doesn’t just clean up its act if all those blues are a real cry for help and not just some acoustic allegorical masterpiece that meets on Sundays like hangovers for everyone else.
Drugless eyes on the space filter, the people of Lemuria in my Komorebi head - by penchant, by perchance, we need a byline; some way to understand why the leaves have curled like busy cigars, a question of light before everything else, William Blake's The Ghost of a Flea forever on loan and that spunky hockey man who calls teeth "chicklets" working the PA down at the arena with a thrilling wasabi pungence: my time in no man's army is up, night cap invitations go unanswered as fog horns while splinters of a dying allegiance cut across the lattice fencing, all fury melts away like some sticky cold season lozenge.
Photographs Don’t Leave a Scent
They say to hedge your bets is to become a property line, ok, they don’t really say that, but they should and photographs don’t leave a scent, throw that firecracker of a nose in the air, nothing betrayed all the way back to informant zero, a hairless chest for broken microphones; the smiles that were there are gone now, eagerness across young faces tongue pillars of salt, a bug across the lens, this foot-fleet way that line never holds; just a flash of over-exposure then we are gone.