A fraud indictment dished out
over bilking Katrina needy
the day Isaac strengthens just
prior to landfall. The metric
of a country downgraded to
clusters of isolated thunder-
storms and occasional hail
indicative of how far we've
fallen from the ideals we were
born under and into. And so
the aftermath of an event leaves
our story in fragments
too disparate for chapters.
Broken into smaller tribes,
dispersed as if by a magnificent
wind, separated naturally and/or
mechanically, we the people
are the drift. We are the lost
home and we are the flooded
street. We people transformed
into sinkholes here and now
barren hardscapes there. And
apparently we matter so much
that we require a categorical tag
stapled through our thought
to be broken ears.
Past counter and
out door,
across parking lot
and onto canvas,
night promises scars.
Yes sun set.
Points darkened.
I flirt with ignominy.
Grease-dirty. Aware
of tricksters.
Sean J Mahoney lives with his wife, her parents, an Uglydoll, and three dogs in Santa Ana, California. He works in geophysics after studying literature and poetry in school. He believes that punk rock somehow miraculously survives, that Judas was a way better singer than Jesus, and that diatomaceous earth is a not well known enough gardening miracle. His stuff appears here, and even there, both in print and online. He dabbles. Frequently. In stuff.
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