How you were made, once upon a time…
(listen to the poem, read by the author)
I said: My god what deals had to be made behind doors
On park benches in dark overcoats, fedoras, papers,
How many millions stolen, for which country’s borders…
The thing is there is no perfect way, no one gut
Wrenching word capturing each moment within your
Arms, place where the word vast was born those landscapes
Of flesh, archipelagoes of endless colors, slightly
Salty to the tongue.
This could be epic poetry, this could express universal truths
Faulty truisms, truancy, even grossly underappreciated
Trepidations swirling round public displays of affection.
So I turned to her, to you, and I asked what sorts of deals
Had to be made behind closed doors, doors with armed
Gods, er guards…deities not desiring the public shared
Knowledge…anyway…iron and feather doors where, it is
Written under dark fedoras and paper overcoats, on coastal
Benches, you were born and nurtured and grew well…like
a season. Any season; a place felt as shining continuously.
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Figurement
(listen to the poem, read by the author)
Narrative cost; an idea regarding fairy tales, vile archetypes
Before clear cement sets and I see earth beneath myself
Disappearing in quick air, my molecules disappearing as
Milliseconds into other timelines, my phobias of triumph,
My embrace of quiet, wet, wet metaphors. Difficult though
to say politely without intent; the tongue does its best work
when untethered from polite conversation. But a hall with
which to house a disability dialogue remains playfully
elusive, downright stubborn. This dialogue does not require
another hope symposium. Life and good times have been so
plentiful, so easy for bumping the lanes of those with blue,
those with clay in their veins. Is it permitted to speak tall for
Crips everywhere by saying boldly being possessed by disa-
bility flat-out sucks; part of those desk-sets, strands of that
healthy hair upon my shoulder pointing me any other way.
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About the Author
Sean J Mahoney lives in Santa Ana, CA with Dianne, her mother, dogs, and renters. To this day he believes Judas was a way better singer than Jesus and…that Mapo Tofu, when done correctly, can indeed make the sunshine. And rain. Candy too.