World Without End
︎︎︎ Liam O'Mahony
︎ Jan 15, 2026
Stanley in the meeting hall
greets the delegation
the councilors still filing in,
sinking into seats.
Hands of the civil servant
unmarred, not yet arthritic,
have assembled all the facts.
He clears his throat to speak.
“My distinguished colleagues,
with regard to this disruption,
I present the following,
a sequence of events:
At eight o’clock this morning,
a light sport aircraft sorties
from Compton-Woodley airstrip,
begins to climb northeast.”
Projected now behind him,
map and arrow trace the flight-path,
dogleg around Commerce,
the vessel gaining speed.
“Next slide,” coos dear Stanley,
“and this is where I’ll warn you,
the gentle hearts among us
are advised to look away.”
Footage from an iPhone,
tack-sharp and overprocessed,
an aircraft now dissolving
into plate-glass facade.
Condensing into cirrus clouds
and snowing down on Wilshire.
The tower punctured, wheezing.
Sucking chest wound sky.
Privately, their Stanley
swears he saw the pilot grinning,
ear to ear, or weeping?
Ecstatic to be free.
His audience now squirming,
refusing to believe it.
Resenting the intrusion
upon the neverending Spring.
Fiberglass monocoque
penetrates the sunrise,
turns space to time to incident.
Outstretched hands shield eyes.
The councilors are wailing,
heading for the exits
processioning to Brentwood,
a column taking shape.
Pooling in the canyons now,
a massing of the breastfed
who prayed for nothing new,
nothing sharp, and nothing green.
Bevel all the edges.
Tie a ribbon ‘round the lampposts.
And notify poor Stanley
the exits have been sealed.
greets the delegation
the councilors still filing in,
sinking into seats.
Hands of the civil servant
unmarred, not yet arthritic,
have assembled all the facts.
He clears his throat to speak.
“My distinguished colleagues,
with regard to this disruption,
I present the following,
a sequence of events:
At eight o’clock this morning,
a light sport aircraft sorties
from Compton-Woodley airstrip,
begins to climb northeast.”
Projected now behind him,
map and arrow trace the flight-path,
dogleg around Commerce,
the vessel gaining speed.
“Next slide,” coos dear Stanley,
“and this is where I’ll warn you,
the gentle hearts among us
are advised to look away.”
Footage from an iPhone,
tack-sharp and overprocessed,
an aircraft now dissolving
into plate-glass facade.
Condensing into cirrus clouds
and snowing down on Wilshire.
The tower punctured, wheezing.
Sucking chest wound sky.
Privately, their Stanley
swears he saw the pilot grinning,
ear to ear, or weeping?
Ecstatic to be free.
His audience now squirming,
refusing to believe it.
Resenting the intrusion
upon the neverending Spring.
Fiberglass monocoque
penetrates the sunrise,
turns space to time to incident.
Outstretched hands shield eyes.
The councilors are wailing,
heading for the exits
processioning to Brentwood,
a column taking shape.
Pooling in the canyons now,
a massing of the breastfed
who prayed for nothing new,
nothing sharp, and nothing green.
Bevel all the edges.
Tie a ribbon ‘round the lampposts.
And notify poor Stanley
the exits have been sealed.
Liam O'Mahony lives in Los Angeles.