Epistle for Vallejo’s Singular Alarm by Sean J Mahoney Vallejo, restless, stirs on the anvil of tears. Many have heard you and seen your nails stuck in walls. Many unsafe serve as titular display. Fingers itch for the well coined, for hair triggers and assurances of shared prosperity. Over vineyard runs pruned and others not just yet, this is modern art stitched and tailored to a spectrum of suits. Commodity. Preemptive. Extraordinary. This the gauge. Vallejo, in the split second it takes to render such damage I know the target of the professional breeze. And it is not you this time. You are dead and you cannot write or prophetize to anyone. Spread your skinny dead arms for those who will grieve, for the feathers that were once Grebes waking innocents with warbled alarm. Spread your arms now and collect the pieces. The table has been set with scars and wailing zones. Are you making lists, tying bits of proof— teeth, outcast shadows, inscribed shrapnel— into the threads of hair still locked to your skull? Are you mad? You died hunted in the nests of ballistic birds, in the tissues of exploded stars. Sit down. I will feed you for there is no one else left awake. None will come to the table until the lights go out, until all the glitter falls. There will be bread, boiled eggs, and fruit to stomach. Cesar, there will be. But not just yet.
Sean J Mahoney lives with his wife, her mother, two Uglydolls, and three dogs in Santa Ana, California. He works in geophysics. He believes in salsa, dark chocolate, and CBD. He believes that Judas was a way better singer than Jesus and that diatomaceous earth is a not well known enough gardening marvel. Sean helped create to the Disability Literature Consortium (www.dislitconsortium.wordpress.com) and co-edited the 3 existing volumes of the MS benefit anthology Something On Our Minds.