Sean J. Mahoney
Bustin’ my Cherr
Crouched in a triple threat: the position of faith
hope, and my sweet, sweet cherry, working
a rocker-step and bringing all of you...bringing
all of you steps nearer.
I cross myself. I crossover in a blink and
a slash into lanes of parallel lines, hard
consonants and perpendicular iconography:
calcium and sweat, quickened blood and pink
cocaine. I take to the air only as well as a lit,
gravity bound being can do. A lay person
subsumed by the inequality of aptitude and long
receipts for fruit; where every cherry in the basket
weighs upon soft white palms seeking work,
throbbing for action.
Tucked in a triple threat: the position of limited
options, indecency, and my sweet, sweet berry.
Dictating a rocker-step and singing to all of you
…singing all of you into immoral sad songs.
I see holes. All I have to do is drop the rock
through and score; oiled scales and steeled
maxillate gleam with spittle, distractions
and debts. Paws up and bottle up and drunk again,
banned from taking space in the lane, in retrials,
and long the veins of my forearms. Slap my efforts,
my standing and waiting, out across land’s end
sans proper postage to delusory people-people
and their progeny’s coming 3-second dependencies.
And they – these thumb-driven children – suck-suck
cherry blossoms mistaking them for vintage fruit;
they will not wait as long as it may take for us to fall.
They know fruit rots eventually.
Plum and Pit
The sea rejects its less than stellar
offspring - it spits them ashore.
And once there, adjusting, marginally
adjusted, these befuddled innocents yell
out for sergeants and marms, for some
fragment of order and an as yet unmet
sense of community.
These once no different than each shell
scooping and shovelling the same: in need
of bodies to huddle and chisel with, in need
of an arc to follow, shitting a contrail
of bipedal miseries to plum and pit;
struggling towards a theory of belief
before anadipsia; before marking shrubs,
before a scent of distinction.
Like the lime of this sea, trunked up
in each and every bone, opportunities
arise for various marrow scrapings. So
the question now is whose genome gets
scattered, which will falls into echoes?
I do not need for that to happen.
No, you be the tinder fuelling the roast.
You generate. You conduct the love
train of resources. Look for me on cor-
ners, with cardboard, marking hydrants
and making less sense.
Sean J Mahoney lives in Santa Ana, California. He works in geophysics. His work has appeared in or is forthcoming from Meat for Tea, Denver Quarterly, Literary Orphans, SharkPack, Occupoetry, Wordgathering, Breath & Shadow, and Amsterdam Quarterly, among others.
Regurgitated from an Historic Esophagus
Ticks of the tech sciences parlay
a carpel grammar into strenuous
fingertips. Strain locking up cells
for their energy has been sold in
decades prior to creditors.
Glucose returns metabolizing borrowed
lactate from tired source material.
William foams, bubbles over with
pancreatic madnesses; deathbed
conversions near sparkling pop-topics.
Communion plate loaded with bad
pennies for the haunting of tastes.
Folding in upon themselves,
melting into a copper broth; in turn
syruped into conventional wisdom
which over time wanes. Fatalities
sloppily scribed by warped hands
and crated away.
Yes they were a rich people is what lovers
will say over tokes and candles. They were
progress; rectories of spectral carbons. Once
Sorry Lewis. Apologies Sacajawea, and Jefferson
And Hemings. Leave Dubois, Mott and Cisneros.
Turn over your keys Tubman, Scott, and Dylan.
America huckstered you Whitman and Ms. Simone.
And the purges are coming now, like a dark storm
One sees on a horizon of sea…plainly inescapable…
It will get much darker see. I promise you.
Do not burden me with your what’s fair and not so.
Do not bring me huddles of those what could not
Be bothered. Turn away with your tired and broken -
You bake open voice and flour mass with sorrows.
Deeper cuts with sisters; a bed with almost truth.
We despair how hard living is here…self-plague,
Self-famine and warring clans…this is my land.
This though will be that place of strict order. Lethal
Ideas will be washed away. Such a word will be
A slur, a blasphemy, an amphibious blemish. Yawn
…sirens heard out my sliding door warn not of what
Is coming but already settled in between the sheets.
thistles stretch their prickly arms afar