RYAN QUINN FLANAGAN

RYAN QUINN FLANAGAN

HOW LIGHTS BECOME FIXTURES

And there you are…high above me

like some space satellite back from the provinces

some wretched bird of paradise with hard

talons illumined, one bulb blown out as though

we are all on our way

and this is not a marriage, though we have

been together as long; you will not divorce me

and I will not divorce you and we will stay together

like this on cold nights the window stays closed

I did not fancy you when we first met, I must be honest,

something about overhead lights makes me think

of failed annunciation paintings where the halos

dangle above like silly cosmic lightbulbs

but we have stayed the course and this

is how lights become fixtures, you up there

in the sinuses and me below burning a pot of rice

for the third time this week.

 

WHY I TEND NOT TO LOVE

An obituary, so impersonal

after all the hair that has been shed

for a single spinning orb

and to get too high is to fall

into junkie’s embrace

and to get too low is to

come down off the mountain

knowing there is no god

but advertising

which can make you that

stiff lifeless blue only the mortician

and the art galleries find attractive

which is why I pick my moments,

why I tend not to love;

not that things should be earned

so much as stumbled upon

like startling a single grazing buck

when it is too late.

 

EVERYTHING BAKES AT 350

EXCEPT BURNING BUILDINGS

The fire engines parked sideways in the street.

Like misplaced cigar boxes shooting fountain sprays

of water at twin towering infernos.  The fire starting in one

and jumping to the next with bright orange hopscotch legs.

Screams from the higher floors.  The windows broken out.

Tiny firemen up the ladders like ants to sugar.  A woman

drops her child as some onlookers cover their mouths.

They are rubbernecking and want to seem concerned.

The buildings don’t seem to be concerned at all.

They creak and shift with a concrete Spartan nonchalance.

Not at all like a cake.  Everything bakes at 350 except

burning buildings.  And if I didn’t have somewhere to be,

I would likely be counted among the ranks of rubberneckers.

But the city is fashioned with many moving parts.  It is just

such a continuance that keeps things interesting.  Barely time

to stop at lights even though the law could be watching.

And they’ve cordoned off the streets.  Blue barricades and

uniforms.  This won’t even make the news.  So I guess

it never happened.  The buildings aren’t big enough

and the victims aren’t either.  I am late for my appointment.

My feet rushing ahead as though they seem to know it.

RYAN QUINN FLANAGAN