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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


your poisons…


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.

Poor Doors
Sheriff Stars

thistles stretch their prickly arms afar

Black Triangle
bedroom tax
Disrupt and Upset
bedroom tax
Sheriff Stars

thistles stretch their prickly arms afar

Black Triangle
Disrupt and Upset

Militant Thistles

prickling the politics of "permanent austerity"

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