Huntress April 12, 2012

 

Bar talk is never meant

To be taken seriously,

Postering and positioning

With the hope in the end

You may get lucky

I’m out of my league,

Especially with her,

She’s so smooth

How she operates here,

Knows the landscape

The rules of the road,

Look,

How eloquently

She holds her wine glass,

How she tilts her head,

Dark gaze peering across

The rim of her glass

Evaluating me,

As if I am wild game,

She is on the hunt,

I have no resources

To keep free of her scope,

Every move she makes

Calculating how I will react,

To the shift of her lips,

Her hips or her long legs,

Her smile from her

Lemon peal lips

Undoes me,

I wave a white flag

I cannot resist.

This is her world

Not mine.

 

A harsh task master April 17, 2012

These are not streets

I have walked before

in daylight or night,

 and never side by side

with a thoroughbred,

 whose long strides

 I struggle to keep pace with,

down the sidewalk into

the lower part of a city she knows

better than I,

 though it is more of a stroll

down a memory lane,

 with not all the memories pleasant,

 a trip through time,

a trek through the history of her life,

which I might not have suspected

 before  this except for the hints

she's dropped like bread crumbs

 we follow in and out of

these precarious woods

we call life,

 taking the path least traveled others avoid,

 not her, she seems to thrive on challenge,

even if it keeps her up at night,

 feeding other furies of the world,

 a harsh task master

who is most harsh on herself,

 each step taking us deeper inside her.

email to Al Sullivan

Milking it. April 13, 2015

 

I milk it like I might a cow, not too hard, but firm enough to get the honey, the smell of it, she and me together, most intoxicating, we have no need to drink, just squeeze it and feel the pleasure growing from the inside, and wonder, is this how a cow feels when a calf sucks its dry, and do I dare take both in both my hands, drawing each to a hardened conclusion, how does she feel when I do this? Does it feel the way I feel when she milks me? And dare I wish for this, day and night, rising and then again as I lay my head to sleep. This idea we need each other for this, to milk each other until the honey comes, and the scent of it gets us both too drunk to care.

email to Al Sullivan

Another lonely night in the rain Sept. 24, 2025

  

The rain came while I sat in City Hall, no clue as to its happening, no thunder rocked the building, just the downpour I discovered when I came out again, slick streets and sidewalks, reflecting the array of light that night time brings out in this part of the city, a pause when I fire emerged, then a downpour again as I took refuge at the train station, another lonely night in a public place, though not nearly as lonely as in the past when I huddled hear, she only a question mark, a passing through as I waited for the rain to stop

email to Al Sullivan

Scalding wax April 12, 2015

  

It looks like hot wax when it comes on to you, warm, not scalding erupting from my candle onto your leg or chest or lips, not sweet the way honey might seem, just what explodes out of me, each stroke bringing me closer to it, until when all arrives, unstoppable, a wax that takes shape on every place it lands, a bit on your lips, which I watch you lick, and as volatile as a volcano, spreading it wherever I ca, on leg or chest or lips, the rhythm of moving hips, the results of unconscionable passion I feel, even now, even all this time later, like wax scalding in a way that does not cause pain, the pleasure so intense I ache to repeat it often and often do in dreams

email to Al Sullivan

Lost in a maze June 1, 2025

  

I am lost in a maze of streets I did not even know existed or have forgotten since my last trek here,  this place where horses used to tug barges along a canal dug across the state, a journey  through my life even though I did not exist back then when the barges did,  my life measured out not in teaspoons but in the remnants of this thing that existed here before the main roads came, I am anachronism, out of time, wishing to live when the barges came and went, now sentenced to existence of watching these spaces, filled in to create an unrecognizable landscape in which I do not belong

 

email to Al Sullivan

Meaningless gestures June 4, 2025

 

None of it means anything, time tricks m, the acts we engage in, this scramble for joy, all forgotten eventually, like old pages to a calendar we have no more use for, the X marks of the jailbird counting down days of a prison sentence, we did nothing to achieve, this working things out (as she was called it), terrifying to the insignificance of a thing I put such significance in, green-eyed over something I have never seen save for my imagination, a meaningless thing she does with meaningless people, leaving me to wonder if in the end of it all, I am as meaningless to her as they are, and all if I have invested, pointless gestures, soon forgotten

 

email to Al Sullivan