vacancy July 3, 2012

 

The chill air the empty chair produces

has nothing to do with the temperature,

 only the vacancy of the seat

across from where I sit at the table,

which I fill with images of my own making,

 my imagination creating scenes

of where she is and what she is doing,

aching because I believe what

 my imagination has thought up.

It is Tuesday and I ought to be relieved

she is not there, only, I’m not,

I am as empty as her chair,

all these thoughts rattling

around in my head like a pair of dice,

dice I refuse to let spill out,

scared I will come up with snake eyes.

I’ve forgotten what she feels like,

tastes like, and even have lost a bit

 of what she looks like in the fog

of made up memories,

 though I remember remembering

that she tastes as sweet

 and her touch as soft s rose pedals

across my skin.

email to Al Sullivan

Egg Shells Oct. 16, 2013

 

 Everything is egg shell,

one wrong step

the universe cracks open

the yoke spills out

none of us immune to her

passing through our lives,

 each needing to feed off

 what is inside her,

only needing to

crack it open first to get inside,

assuming she is more vulnerable

than she is,

 counting on it,

taking on faith the face we see

 is her real face,

when we should know it is not,

this not exactly a life,

a mask she pulls over herself

 because she is even

more vulnerable

than we believe,

she the only one

who can protect it,

 to save it, to keep it

 from being crushed,

we, so bent on sucking

out the yoke,

we create cracks

we vowed not to create,

 breaking a trust

we vowed we never would,

 none of us as

good as we pretend,

she knows it,

 counting on it,

 making it possible

to get on with her life

with as little guilt

when jilting us.

 

 

email to Al Sullivan

Scared to death Oct. 7, 2013

  

 Scared?  Yes, of course.

You don’t come face to face

 with your mortal enemy

and not feel fear,

 the tightness in the throat,

 the extra beat of heart

the closer she gets,

 mouth so dry

even my teeth hurt,

 not grinding,

not that kind of scared,

 just a lost kind of scared,

 what to say, if anything,

 where to look

 anywhere but where she is,

 each stare from her stabbing,

 drawing no blood, just pain

 a year not enough time

 to heal my self-inflicted wounds

or more so, the ones I caused,

my fingers clutching my camera

until my knuckles turn white,

as I wait out for something

I expected to happened,

but doesn’t, won’t

, as she floats here and there,

 like a bumble bee,

 stinger for me just to look at,

to be seen,

as I wait out the time for it all to begin,

then end,

 so I an crawl home,

bleeding,

 just not bleeding,

scared,

but I know not what of.

 

email to Al Sullivan

Not enough (2014)

 

It fits like an oven glove

Fingers first, then

Part of my hand,

Only the heat is

On the inside, not out,

As I plunge into

The oven that

Scalds me,

No bread-crumb trail

To lead me back

I am consumed,

Doomed by my

Own desire,

All too willing

To submit myself

To the witch’s will.

It fits me just

Like an oven glove

As I dive head first

Into the abyss,

Drowning myself

In its warm, moist

Interior with

No desire to

Rescue myself.

It fits around me

Like a glove

A soft embrace

I ache for

More and more

And more

And it is still

Not enough.

email to Al Sullivan

Slipping through her fingers Oct. 9, 2013

 

A whole year later

I still bleed

seeing her as I saw her,

aware that nothing has changed.

I am the ghost in her closet

the beast beneath her bed,

serving in her royal court

 like a combined jester

and evil knight,

 the man to whom she can

point a finger at

so that her true knights

 might rise up to protect her,

a bit disappointed

she failed to dress up as queen,

now I know

 at what may well be our last moment

 in the same place at the same time,

 all remains the same,

 haunted, curious,

 a petulant frat boy

who can’t even rely on her for a drink,

 too clever and elusive for my own good,

the perceived foil-er of plans,

for all that I feel intensely sorry for her,

knowing how alone she feels

how in the end of days

it is not me that denies her

what she wants most in the world,

 but herself,

letting what she wanted

most slip through her fingers.

email to Al Sullivan

over the cliff July 2012

 

why does it always reach this point

 this point of no return

 where love wears out

after having rubbed

 the wrong stone for too long

why can't we find solid ground to stand on

 before we reach the edge of a cliff

before we fall off

with nothing not even each other

to cling to

since when one falls so does the other

 even if we end up landing in different places

 why does life always take us to the brink

where in a blink we must choose

to hold back or pull off

 and we go over when we want to hold on

our feet never able to stick to Stone

 and stay there

slipping and sliding

with the rain of gravel

 the small things, the mistaken moments

always the end of what we assumed

 at the start would last forever

what's left to hold on to if we lack each other

 what's left to cling to

if one goes over and not both

email to Al Sullivan

Knowing what pure is July 8, 2012

 

 

I turn the water on

Into the tub,

White noise

To fill the space

In my head

Too much thinking

Too many thoughts

Crowding that

Tiny place,

Doubting myself

Never believing

I am ever

Right or true,

A gun slinger

Who shoots

From the hip

But misses as

Much as he hits,

I turn the tap

On the tub

When I can’t get

To the bank of

The river,

Polluted water

Gurgling all the way

From Paterson to

New York Bay,

My life as thick

As the water is,

Filled with debris,

While I see it

As pure

When I paint

Pure water as foul,

You can’t live on

The shores of a toxic river

Without thinking

Everything impure,

Letting the tub fill up,

From a tap I’m sure

Is as polluted as

The river is,

Still it comforts me

Even if it is

An illusion

email to Al Sullivan