tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9498492474266354382024-03-18T14:00:33.158-07:00Poemssully00http://www.blogger.com/profile/08523929037351094072noreply@blogger.comBlogger1716125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-949849247426635438.post-89603946003158015952024-03-18T01:00:00.000-07:002024-03-18T01:00:00.345-07:00Poetry Journal Oct. 6, 2013<p><span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXE4-2AXGH_zcMcPp0zMg84VdTjJThX1yfMhZqL5nH7L7mHbGq2ASMLUAudPSVM_67bFwoFEW1vUQB4VWSI6wA0YpYQ-N_Kk8EUi09gxsI0_cxP1ds0g17QhCBjdrBkQnvmtRvfjkROnjRuVm9Z1x4tR9SdNdulJ9DE_mPW0QvL3L42muJC_H2JsBL9dE/s1279/10-06-13.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1279" data-original-width="1131" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXE4-2AXGH_zcMcPp0zMg84VdTjJThX1yfMhZqL5nH7L7mHbGq2ASMLUAudPSVM_67bFwoFEW1vUQB4VWSI6wA0YpYQ-N_Kk8EUi09gxsI0_cxP1ds0g17QhCBjdrBkQnvmtRvfjkROnjRuVm9Z1x4tR9SdNdulJ9DE_mPW0QvL3L42muJC_H2JsBL9dE/s320/10-06-13.jpeg" width="283" /></span></a></div><span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /> </span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: x-large;">Oct. 6, 2013<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p><span style="font-size: x-large;"> </span></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: x-large;">She should not be here, this genuflection, this vast apology
to a congressman she plotted to destroy, the vindicated virgin mayor making
amends with the naming of a school, and I sent to cover it, thinking it was
safe, thinking even she would not have nerve enough to show her face, yet she
did, not just brazen, defiant, on the periphery of it all when they (the
masters of this universe) refused to let her do the job the Virgin Mayor hired
her to do, saddled with a camera and an intense sense of isolation, an insider
forced to look in from the outside while others celebrated, staring at me as if
I am to blame, if not for this, then for some other imagined indiscretion, her
dog, snapping at my heals (perhaps at her direction) one more of those powerful
people she collected to protect her, used as a weapon when she needs to<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span><center><a href="mailto:alsullivan00@gmail.com"><span style="font-size: x-large;">email to Al Sullivan</span></a></center>
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sully00http://www.blogger.com/profile/08523929037351094072noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-949849247426635438.post-1509779557607907502024-03-17T21:00:00.000-07:002024-03-17T21:00:00.138-07:00When old friends meet Oct. 5, 2013 <p><span style="font-size: x-large;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p><span style="font-size: x-large;"> </span></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: x-large;">She came in with her entourage – a flaky girlfriend and the
public safety director, but for the most part didn’t seem part of the crowd.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: x-large;">When I say flaky, I mean really flaky, and they huddled together
on the sidewalk outside the school.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Frankly, I was
shocked she showed up at all since she had – while working for us – tried to
destroy the man of the hour, the congressman for whom the school was being
renamed.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: x-large;">To my surprise, she was not dressed up as I had expected
(white shirt, Capri pants, to look the part of official photographer I
suppose), But her blonde bimbo friend had dressed up, purple gown and high heels.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: x-large;">I saw them before they saw me, quickly turning away so I
missed her expression when she finally caught sight of me on the sidewalk
twenty feet away from them.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: x-large;">But a glance back saw them in an intense conversation, all
looking in my direction, and several times, she repositioned herself, so it was
impossible for me to avoid seeing her, even when I was conversing with someone
else.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: x-large;">When I entered the lobby with the crowd, so did she.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: x-large;">I eased through the door to the auditorium to get an unobstructed
photo of the band practicing. Something she had just done.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: x-large;">At this point, the public safety director ordered me out of
the auditorium, whether or not at our poet’s direction, I can’t say.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: x-large;">I spoke to the security guard and then called the
congressman’s PR person telling her there was going to be a problem with me
getting into the affair without a press pass.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: x-large;">I followed the TV crew back into the auditorium, half expecting
to get arrested.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: x-large;">Eventually, we all wound up back in the lobby to wait for
the official start of the ceremony. She clung to her flaky girlfriend, I clung
to the TV crew until the politicians that including the Virgin Mayor and the
freeholder, the man his son had hacked, came in.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: x-large;">The freeholder later claimed she glared at him as if she
might have an invading army.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: x-large;">Finally, I went back into the auditorium to take more
pictures, as did she, even though only a few people had yet settled into the
seats.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: x-large;">She was apparently gathering photos for historic
preservation. None eventually wound up on her web page.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: x-large;">As more people arrived, I met with a guy from the county
with whom I chatted near the rear of the auditorium.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: x-large;">Once or twice, I saw our poet hovering nearby, just as she
sometimes had during those excruciating days in the aftermath of our falling out,
now more than a year later.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: x-large;">You would think that after more than a year since the last
fiscal contact, she would feel less enraged, a point that shocked me as I stood
there and got the feeling that she was daring me to look back at her. I did
not. Eventually, her flaky friend settled in the lobby just outside the door
where I could see her, and she could see me. My poet friend might well have
been there, too, but she remained out of view if she was. Once the ceremony
started my poet friend and I made our way towards the front, me to the aisle
wall to the left of the stage, she to a chair near the front, although now
oddly all by herself.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: x-large;">I never saw her flaky friend again.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: x-large;">For the most part, my poet friend remained across the auditorium
from me. We both made our way to the front of the stage to take pictures, and
then retreated to our respective corners like boxes waiting for the next round
to begin.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: x-large;">Only once did we stand side by side only I didn’t notice
until I looked over my photos later. A few times when she moved up the aisle
towards the read of the auditorium she seemed to glance at me. I deliberately
looked elsewhere.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: x-large;">At one point, she touched the Hometown freeholder on the
shoulder. I didn’t know if she knew him or not. He later said he did not. But
he’s such a womanizer, I would not have been surprised if he was lying about
it.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: x-large;">After the ceremony, she took a number of posed pictures, but
even as the town’s “official photographer,” she didn’t have exclusive access
and had to squeeze between the mob of media.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: x-large;">I saw her only briefly after that, taking pictures. She did
not appear to notice me when I left.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: x-large;">With the exception of the cop trying to throw me out, the
whole affair seemed less hostile than I thought it would be – although I’m
puzzled that she would have any feelings negative or positive towards me after
a year of virtually no contact.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: x-large;">I’m imagine she must have been a bit startled to see me when
she first arrived with her friends.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: x-large;">She did not come across as an official at this event, and in
fact, I later learned from the congressman’s PR person that at rehearsal, she
attempted to direct how the ceremony would go, but was told she could not, and
so I got the feeling that she was isolated from the events and for the most
part sat by herself, making a few attempts to talk to officials, but seemed
even remote from them.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: x-large;">This makes me think that her so-called connection to the
inner circle may have been exaggerated, and while she works in the same office
with them, they may not confide in her – and that whatever power she has comes
by way of the mayor, not from any position she holds, something that must add
to her mounting woes.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: x-large;">I can’t tell from this meeting of old friends whether she
holds all this against me or not.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p><span style="font-size: x-large;"> </span></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p><span style="font-size: x-large;"> </span></o:p></p>
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span><center><a href="mailto:alsullivan00@gmail.com"><span style="font-size: x-large;">email to Al Sullivan</span></a></center>
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sully00http://www.blogger.com/profile/08523929037351094072noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-949849247426635438.post-57906816324896111632024-03-17T00:00:00.000-07:002024-03-17T00:00:00.140-07:00Poetry journal Sept.27, 2013<p><span style="font-size: x-large;"> </span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7CQH0yfs6j9B0TiW1-9LR5JAF2ylXX7sfd-RGdoDJr_k-ulSW-XyP1VFZd42N08CMYkz80Qt8FpKGRXtfI2Uga5AJiRI2bkH8fvNwtUJewoePiBJZhQsOxOH98hXteAWECinzQZY_b8Zx56sTsRhoiKMJ1t8nur9W7vwnC2yCHPJXTk6p6U6S5Xn4SAg/s1306/09-27-13.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1306" data-original-width="1021" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7CQH0yfs6j9B0TiW1-9LR5JAF2ylXX7sfd-RGdoDJr_k-ulSW-XyP1VFZd42N08CMYkz80Qt8FpKGRXtfI2Uga5AJiRI2bkH8fvNwtUJewoePiBJZhQsOxOH98hXteAWECinzQZY_b8Zx56sTsRhoiKMJ1t8nur9W7vwnC2yCHPJXTk6p6U6S5Xn4SAg/s320/09-27-13.jpeg" width="250" /></span></a></div><span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: x-large;">Sept. 9, 2013<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p><span style="font-size: x-large;"> </span></o:p><span style="font-size: xx-large;">If you tell yourself often enough that you may be healed,
then maybe you will be – like that blind man on the side of the road who is
lucky enough to be where he is when Christ passes and the Son of God takes pity
on him, and restores his sight, a miracle made out of mercy, the blind man may
or man not deserve, and perhaps comes to regret later when he bears witness to
the horrors of this world, the Christ who healed him crucified, the slaughter
of innocent lambs.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: x-large;">Each cure comes with a cruse of awareness and the
realization we have mistaken shadows for something real, and when cast out of
the cave again, we are blinded by the scalding brightness of what we never
expected to see, eventually forced to poke out our own eyes and wander the
earth in shame, for things done we did not recognize as evil.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p><span style="font-size: x-large;"> </span></o:p></p>
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span><center><a href="mailto:alsullivan00@gmail.com"><span style="font-size: x-large;">email to Al Sullivan</span></a></center>
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sully00http://www.blogger.com/profile/08523929037351094072noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-949849247426635438.post-49240728628548793072024-03-16T21:00:00.000-07:002024-03-16T21:00:00.252-07:00An unfair exchange Oct. 2. 2013<p><span style="font-size: x-large;"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: x-large;">The apparent simplicity of her most recent poem posted today
adds to the intensity of its feelings—and again, she repeats the theme of many
preceding poems – Love lost, which she aches to have returned to her.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: x-large;">I said “apparently” simple because this is as complex a poem
as many of those she had posted in the past in that it alludes to a dramatic
change, a reluctant acceptance of the reality that her love may not be coming
back to her with this as an effort to appeal to his nostalgia for the amazing
things that transpired between them.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: x-large;">She looks back at the point when they first came together,
how he “disarmed” her and lifted her out of the “the vast, thick sand of a numb
existence” and transformed her into a “newer, better being,” an experience that
has changed her life forever.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: x-large;">Only now, he has “exchanged me in our existence for
something you can disarm at will.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: x-large;">This suggests a number of things, in one regard, the use of “something”
instead of “someone,” alludes to something more than just another person who
had taken her place, but perhaps a way of life he has chosen over life with
her.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: x-large;">But it also suggests that he had replaced her in his existence
with someone else, some other situation in which he continues to maintain a
level of control.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: x-large;">There is nostalgia in this for something they had together
but no longer have, the lovemaking (she once claimed she could die for) and a
closeness she clearly misses.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: x-large;">The ending lines are a bit confusing, but I think they claim
that he once disarmed her, changed her life and how has abandoned her for someone
(or something else) over which he has more control, and (by adjusting the
punctuation a little) she claims they can still be naked together and close,
but all that is behind them now.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: x-large;">As with many of her other poems, this implies an immense amount
of guess work on my part, and yet the tone and structure suggest she had turned
an emotional corner and that one some level admits he most likely won’t be
coming back, as the same time, she reminds him of what they had together and
how significant a role he’s played in her life.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: x-large;">Far from resentful, the poem contains an accusatory note,
which largely says: How can you go with someone else after all we have meant to
each other.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: x-large;">The repeated use of “disarm implies two distinctly different
meanings. The first implies that he (in a positive sense) got through her usual
defenses to lift her out of the funk of her life.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: x-large;">The second seems more sinister, a less positive use of force
to get someone he can control at will ignoring the fact that she is still available
and needs to be with him.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: x-large;">He, as indicated in previous poems, has changed her into a “newer
and better” person, something she had been trying to convey to him and get him
to believe how different she is from what she used to be, and gives him credit
for it.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: x-large;">This also hints at what may had caused them to part ways, perhaps
a level of independence (she choosing “me” over “we” as said in a poem last
spring.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: x-large;">She clearly doesn’t understand why he had abandoned her for
someone (or something” else.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: x-large;">In some ways, this poem challenges some of my previous
assumptions that she has gotten involved with a married man, although his exchanging
her for something else may well imply that he is married with kids and a picket
fence, and a life style he can control, while life – as amazingly passionate as
it is with her – is unpredictable.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: x-large;">He clearly has decided to live a life with the least risk.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p><span style="font-size: x-large;"> </span></o:p></p>
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span><center><a href="mailto:alsullivan00@gmail.com"><span style="font-size: x-large;">email to Al Sullivan</span></a></center>
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sully00http://www.blogger.com/profile/08523929037351094072noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-949849247426635438.post-54678307150998976662024-03-16T00:00:00.000-07:002024-03-16T00:00:00.261-07:00Poetry Journal Feb. 15, 2024<p><span style="font-size: x-large;"> </span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyzTaz8PVBj8RVYw1TseVEKUtrjxEEPu7TkabUvdw-d6s8XrB3dKgqzLyLyBe0b-yU3IKZzIhqevnQ9FsBJ7XWTLBa9pX5ERsbNssdUFuqtle7Xd_1GBWYXU_-NTjspFcw9REOszIWQhrxUq5viGUCZcoSsKuKf1tGibGUnuIP_aayX5UxpuKAAS_1alc/s1339/02-15-24.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1339" data-original-width="805" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyzTaz8PVBj8RVYw1TseVEKUtrjxEEPu7TkabUvdw-d6s8XrB3dKgqzLyLyBe0b-yU3IKZzIhqevnQ9FsBJ7XWTLBa9pX5ERsbNssdUFuqtle7Xd_1GBWYXU_-NTjspFcw9REOszIWQhrxUq5viGUCZcoSsKuKf1tGibGUnuIP_aayX5UxpuKAAS_1alc/s320/02-15-24.jpeg" width="192" /></span></a></div><span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span><p></p><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: x-large;">Feb. 15, 2024<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p><span style="font-size: x-large;"> </span></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: x-large;">The old Chuck Berry Christmas song fills my head as I hear
her lay out her plans for her move, “Run Rudolph Run” she fleeing something I can’t
see at a distance, yet clearly overwhelming from where she sits, this need to flee
overpowering her need to be where she is, where we all assumed she was happy, a
sudden dash for safety and yet, as she says, something coming on for a long
time, yet sooner than expected, Run Rudolph Run, as fast as her feet can fly,
going where whatever or whomever it is can’t reach her, though as in the past,
the shadow of this thing clings to her heels, haunting her, making her need so
much more to hurry.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p><span style="font-size: x-large;"> </span></o:p></p><span style="font-size: x-large;"><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://adsjournal2024.blogspot.com/2024/01/journal-2024.html">Journal 2024</a><br /></div></span><p></p>
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span><center><a href="mailto:alsullivan00@gmail.com"><span style="font-size: x-large;">email to Al Sullivan</span></a></center>
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sully00http://www.blogger.com/profile/08523929037351094072noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-949849247426635438.post-88327323432177860752024-03-15T21:00:00.000-07:002024-03-15T21:00:00.137-07:00Poetry Journal June 4, 2012<p><span style="font-size: x-large;"> </span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhy0bFa4pfzBhTijXerVHxHnQ_J4zuTD_jimNXkN2XtbrhN18RGWntlag9v-xSEUhRWOefD5IdUKMxvzzBkWrqKS2AnsdiEADows6i-X3AOAgI5Ssgm4vWiGCtlBnwKAgV22N-8yhQQM3xU4Y7skABXx2YMli93D14qJq-XpsOpddGSWNca0IkdJMjspw8/s1284/06-04-12.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1284" data-original-width="1015" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhy0bFa4pfzBhTijXerVHxHnQ_J4zuTD_jimNXkN2XtbrhN18RGWntlag9v-xSEUhRWOefD5IdUKMxvzzBkWrqKS2AnsdiEADows6i-X3AOAgI5Ssgm4vWiGCtlBnwKAgV22N-8yhQQM3xU4Y7skABXx2YMli93D14qJq-XpsOpddGSWNca0IkdJMjspw8/s320/06-04-12.jpeg" width="253" /></span></a></div><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: x-large;">June 4, 2012</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: x-large;">Are we predisposed to all this, an army of zombie stalkers
drawn to her as if to devour her brain, knowing the whole time how unhealthy is
all is, and how much mor intense it gets the closer we get, and yet, we cannot
resist, aching to get back what we never had, never should have gotten, and never
will, relevant only for the briefest moment, the flash of a firefly’s tail in
the dim twilight, always destined for it to die out when the deep dark comes,
she plucking us up like a child collecting us for a jar, only to have our light
extinguished forever by dawn.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: x-large;">She never turns back once she has moved on, perhaps knowing
that there are always more of us to pluck from the evening, never regretting
the morning after even as we lay extinguished at the bottom of the jar in which
we are collected.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
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sully00http://www.blogger.com/profile/08523929037351094072noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-949849247426635438.post-47449822685241516592024-03-15T00:00:00.000-07:002024-03-15T00:00:00.240-07:00Poetry journal Oct. 2, 2013<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjp_9vchoQFjn7JSjd7k3Y9JxEfhDpYBghq1L5OXUWcCkvI5eLGh6whtpvNQ32S7bTB4gqhEpemeI_75suqsvnvnkGilkpzF5NKtCfXcJEUgsbIOolw1wI9BLMYkWh5l8mwBP12akSrp4aQ9SuCg3EABGJnIpBD_HA4B4tT5Fv7ZbAZiEX9LK9vO8mm6Ms/s1334/10-02-13.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1334" data-original-width="1048" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjp_9vchoQFjn7JSjd7k3Y9JxEfhDpYBghq1L5OXUWcCkvI5eLGh6whtpvNQ32S7bTB4gqhEpemeI_75suqsvnvnkGilkpzF5NKtCfXcJEUgsbIOolw1wI9BLMYkWh5l8mwBP12akSrp4aQ9SuCg3EABGJnIpBD_HA4B4tT5Fv7ZbAZiEX9LK9vO8mm6Ms/s320/10-02-13.jpeg" width="251" /></span></a></div><span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /> Oct. 2, 2013</span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><o:p> </o:p>They take off the handcuffs and set her free – even though she
is only a prisoner in her own mind, tied up and gagged not my any real villain,
only by what she’s done to herself, locked up in that early morning dungeon
with the squeaky wheel of the hamster cage, yet no Steve McQueen ball to bounce
against the walls to pass the time, let out into the free air again after
months even years of fearing what might transpire, all finally settled if not
her nerves, and perhaps the handcuffs still press against her wrists, the way
an amputee still feels the missing limb, as if all this has become too much a
part of her life to let go of merely with an acquittal, too meaningful,
something she could fight against, something – even in pain and anguish –to tell
her she is real, and now, floating in the air she needs to test her wings with
hopes she can fly</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span><center><a href="mailto:alsullivan00@gmail.com"><span style="font-size: x-large;">email to Al Sullivan</span></a></center>
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sully00http://www.blogger.com/profile/08523929037351094072noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-949849247426635438.post-28221694175176041042024-03-14T21:00:00.000-07:002024-03-14T21:00:00.242-07:00vindication Oct. 2, 2013<p><span style="font-size: x-large;"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: x-large;">Everything changed yesterday. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: x-large;">But our poet got it wrong when she called our office to tell
out boss that both the mayor and his son were acquitted.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: x-large;">The mayor was; the son was not. Although the son was convicted
only of a misdemeanor, a slap on the wrist, and overall, a vindication not just
for the mayor but also our poet, allowing her to keep her position until she
chooses to leave it, possibly extending her control over our office if that is
indeed the role the masters of R’s campaign in Hometown have assigned her.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: x-large;">The change of focus will create its own issues. How to suddenly
settle back onto a ship you thought was sinking<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: x-large;">-- all the plans for life boats or parachutes gone for naught.
While there is relief in all this confusion, there is also the question: what
to do next.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: x-large;">I may be wrong in all this, but to me she already seems bored
with her healthy routine.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: x-large;">It isn’t getting her where she wants to go, can’t get her
lover back, and doesn’t allow her to find a new venture to pursue, and frankly,
doesn’t help her to make ends meet such as paying the rent – and she seems to
have been swept aside in the struggle for power.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: x-large;">What comes next? Backlash? Vengeance?<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: x-large;">Will she be happy simply settling back into day to day
routine, and not seek to trickle up anywhere.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: x-large;">It’s hard to tell.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: x-large;">My feeling is that she’ll never be happy with the same old
routine<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span><center><a href="mailto:alsullivan00@gmail.com"><span style="font-size: x-large;">email to Al Sullivan</span></a></center>
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sully00http://www.blogger.com/profile/08523929037351094072noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-949849247426635438.post-34170609898827471882024-03-14T00:00:00.000-07:002024-03-14T04:47:24.532-07:00Poetry Journal Sept. 26, 2013<p><span style="font-size: x-large;"> </span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihnehTyqh6cq_Ss4-QfuozA81NWSuW3VlYRoU2ecytL2GyGfGn2ntaqU18xjKfbXSllrSCFATPIH2PzLFFpu1U9kV83uWyilhhOR7XBj5lo_0UpiSUVUE0wKtDqRLy5Swi_-Gz_H01lTH4Vu08R8k8tDRmBHK5D4OkD6WLYOfbzYqdZzYe8GQppyjUVfU/s1290/09-26-13.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1290" data-original-width="1048" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihnehTyqh6cq_Ss4-QfuozA81NWSuW3VlYRoU2ecytL2GyGfGn2ntaqU18xjKfbXSllrSCFATPIH2PzLFFpu1U9kV83uWyilhhOR7XBj5lo_0UpiSUVUE0wKtDqRLy5Swi_-Gz_H01lTH4Vu08R8k8tDRmBHK5D4OkD6WLYOfbzYqdZzYe8GQppyjUVfU/s320/09-26-13.jpeg" width="260" /></a></span></div><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: x-large;">Sept. 26, 2013<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p><span style="font-size: x-large;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: xx-large;">We all want most the girl we can never have, and the more she
won’t have us, the more intense we feel – not that any of this matters all this
time later, after the ship has sank, will all of us in our separate life boats,
floating on an endless sea we all once believed would bring us bliss.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: x-large;">The fact that she is stranded in this world without love
surprises me most—when I assumed (and perhaps she did, too) she could have any
man she wants only now she wants a man she can’t have and floats in her life
boat alone.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: x-large;">I hear the shrill cry over the caps of the sea, thinking at
first it might be hungry gulls, when she’s the one starving, and he’s the only
one who can feed her need – with all the life boats and all the souls stranded
in each, why does she seek out that one which moves endlessly out of reach, and
soon out of hearing – with only the shrill cries left which he won’t hear.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span><center><a href="mailto:alsullivan00@gmail.com"><span style="font-size: x-large;">email to Al Sullivan</span></a></center>
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sully00http://www.blogger.com/profile/08523929037351094072noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-949849247426635438.post-8879630667155659602024-03-13T21:00:00.000-07:002024-03-13T21:00:00.270-07:00Pinch hitter? Oct. 1, 2013<p><span style="font-size: x-large;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: x-large;"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: x-large;">It never stops.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: x-large;">When they (whomever they are) fail to generate the needed
result from one warm body, they replace that body with another.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: x-large;">At least, this is the theory behind A’s sudden deployment in
the Hometown election, replacing our poet, who may have been employed to seduce
the Democratic Chairman (DC) previously, but was thwarted by the Congressman’s
PR person when it was it was discovered the poet and DC having drinks in a Hometown
bar, and sent the congressman’s thugs to snatch him away.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: x-large;">Now, A appears to be working on R’s behalf, while pretending
to serve as PR for O, who is heading a third party ticket in the election, her
role is to utterly destroy his campaign from within so that R can win over the
incumbent mayor, who reportedly is paying O – through Poopie the Developer – to
split the anti-incumbent vote so the mayor can retain her seat.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: x-large;">GA (the Hometown blogger loyal to the incumbent mayor)
claims our poet recruited A for the role, and now A is inseparable from O,
going everywhere he goes.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: x-large;">If our poet still has a role, it may be to keep the owner in
line (our owner is very close to Poopie).<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: x-large;">Last year, she broke up with her fiancé after she became
pregnant and had an abortion – which he apparently opposed. Although it is
possible, the baby wasn’t his. They reunited last June, at which point she
tried to spin me on the virtues of R (we were at an awards dinner), although
when I later asked if R had hired her, she denied it vehemently, claiming she
only “helped him out” briefly at the request of Carmelo, a notorious womanizer
and well known for his sexual politics.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: x-large;">All this may be vindictiveness on A’s part in that she is
angry at him and Poopie for going against R, almost guaranteeing a victory for the
incumbent mayor. But more than likely (since she is getting paid by Puppy as
well as R) her role is to destroy O well before voters go to the polls.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: x-large;">The fact that she is sleeping with O and living with him in
HIS fiancé’s condo strikes a wrong note with me, especially because R’s people
are keeping a close watch on the condo, apparently video taping the comings and
goings to potentially use in a smear campaign if A is unsuccessful in destroying
O’s campaign from within.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: x-large;">What her fiancé thinks of all this, I have no clue. I
suppose they have broken up again.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: x-large;">While I would not put it passed our poet to seduce O, I really
don’t believe she would expose herself in the way A has, or for that matter,
allowing others to pimp her out for political gain.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p><span style="font-size: x-large;"> </span></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p><span style="font-size: x-large;"> </span></o:p></p>
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span><center><a href="mailto:alsullivan00@gmail.com"><span style="font-size: x-large;">email to Al Sullivan</span></a></center>
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</span><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p><span style="font-size: x-large;"> </span></o:p></p>sully00http://www.blogger.com/profile/08523929037351094072noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-949849247426635438.post-127214675944378092024-03-13T01:30:00.000-07:002024-03-13T01:30:00.348-07:00Poetry Journal Jan 15, 2024<p><span style="font-size: x-large;"> </span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4McF2E9py-jP8ij28ZG9rtAD4rYi2O22M66wjSxA0mIQ5UAZj0ccObRIOuD3Sskwd7u12gJorRwAri_xEaA2UuN9saqPl87cUOcMTNKjjZREuW4W9rWmBGeBksQMltEH9qjvKVsThXR-1BDOzRv0LQvmJvyY0ddZiY1w_tgwtQhMzoc9NeI50vLEhBGw/s1356/01-15-24.bmp" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1356" data-original-width="783" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4McF2E9py-jP8ij28ZG9rtAD4rYi2O22M66wjSxA0mIQ5UAZj0ccObRIOuD3Sskwd7u12gJorRwAri_xEaA2UuN9saqPl87cUOcMTNKjjZREuW4W9rWmBGeBksQMltEH9qjvKVsThXR-1BDOzRv0LQvmJvyY0ddZiY1w_tgwtQhMzoc9NeI50vLEhBGw/s320/01-15-24.bmp" width="185" /></span></a></div><p></p><p><span style="font-size: x-large;">Jan 15, 2024</span></p><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><o:p> </o:p>She changes her face so frequently, I can’t blink fast
enough to keep up, this time reverting to the face of a little girl, who just got
a wee bit naughty and yet still innocent, like a modern day Cinderella, who dresses
up for the ball, sweeping gaze in search of a Prince Charming who is not really
there, pretending she’s not, though the truth lay in her wide open eyes, even
when those times she shows a face that seem bright, looking just a bit silly
with camera affixed to her riding cap, and yet, lovely in the shirt she wears
bearing small hors on her chest like a medal.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p><span style="font-size: x-large;"> </span></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><o:p><span style="font-size: x-large;"> </span></o:p><a href="https://adsjournal2024.blogspot.com/2024/01/journal-2024.html" style="font-size: xx-large;">Journal 2024</a></p><span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span><p></p>
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span><center><a href="mailto:alsullivan00@gmail.com"><span style="font-size: x-large;">email to Al Sullivan</span></a></center>
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sully00http://www.blogger.com/profile/08523929037351094072noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-949849247426635438.post-21960541640627775352024-03-12T21:00:00.001-07:002024-03-12T21:00:00.424-07:00Poetry Journal June 2, 2012<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHNHIjNLfwnAaGarnP_siqhcswTAuYc5bBXT2jTabots7BpXrP6en4-FNsGxLmFoq7XNpAzjfGgtEdTyy7WbHh-ATB-OBemMwQFGE4zZE8vlcFBDXH2xX2H4FoLUCeDXw2cSya0NYQh1gWUaA-MzjSLSbPDyLKTv-qyBXVemFU42gWjvoBsb9sN79C8vE/s1312/06-02-12b.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1312" data-original-width="1043" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHNHIjNLfwnAaGarnP_siqhcswTAuYc5bBXT2jTabots7BpXrP6en4-FNsGxLmFoq7XNpAzjfGgtEdTyy7WbHh-ATB-OBemMwQFGE4zZE8vlcFBDXH2xX2H4FoLUCeDXw2cSya0NYQh1gWUaA-MzjSLSbPDyLKTv-qyBXVemFU42gWjvoBsb9sN79C8vE/s320/06-02-12b.jpeg" width="254" /></span></a></div><p></p><p><span style="font-size: x-large;">June 2, 2012</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: x-large;">I envy the honey bee that hovers over her open flower, then
plunges in, stirring up nectar with such passion as I can only wish I had, his
singer bringing her pleasure instead of pain.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: x-large;">I envy her as she welcomes him, spreading her petals wide to
receive his offering, like a bride on her wedding night, though she is no bride,
and every night is a honeymoon, even when it is not him playing the part of
groom.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: x-large;">The soft touch of leaves, the potent scent she exudes as she
shudders under the touch of his fingers, tongue, stinger, going deep, searching
for her essence, intent on making the most of this intense moment of her life,
the bee hovering and plunging, digging up the secrets of joy within her.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span><center><a href="mailto:alsullivan00@gmail.com"><span style="font-size: x-large;">email to Al Sullivan</span></a></center>
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sully00http://www.blogger.com/profile/08523929037351094072noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-949849247426635438.post-46198913750456968782024-03-12T00:30:00.000-07:002024-03-12T00:30:00.248-07:00Poetry Journal June 3, 2012<p><span style="font-size: x-large;"> </span></p><p><span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEim-_yXywNTua663LOluWSY7FhRJeTVIkYOj7coT4VTA_HSpfRKk0RWudqnh4DHRr36uL44U6jAy9JQ-BANn8l9COtt7NCraclMOA6UpaUBDQAHYmmaSngmm0OsWxM28aqKFRJZrRSlOEMpzayRJ1t27_3ibDlchVC-CikyJNlgFAKVFgmbMhhruhKohKw/s1279/06-03-12.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1279" data-original-width="1015" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEim-_yXywNTua663LOluWSY7FhRJeTVIkYOj7coT4VTA_HSpfRKk0RWudqnh4DHRr36uL44U6jAy9JQ-BANn8l9COtt7NCraclMOA6UpaUBDQAHYmmaSngmm0OsWxM28aqKFRJZrRSlOEMpzayRJ1t27_3ibDlchVC-CikyJNlgFAKVFgmbMhhruhKohKw/s320/06-03-12.jpeg" width="254" /></span></a></div><span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span><p><span style="font-size: x-large;">June 3, 2012</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: x-large;">I’m deep in its now, knowing that to be near her is an unhealthy
situation, and yet like a slightly wayward bee, I’m drawn deeper into it, seeking
something from her I’m not entitled to, and yet cannot resist, accepting the post
she assigns to me, us, like a foolish school kid sitting in the corner with my
dunce cap on, aching over something already expired, stirring dead coals with
the hope of reigniting fire, while she clicks her heads withing for “no place
like home,” all too aware of how easily she can replace any of us, this line of
hovering bumble bees aching for her honey (or pollen or whatever I is that
church up our hormones and makes us act out our stupidity which we try so
desperately to hid, we unable to survive – as U2 once sang – with our without
her, and how we left this happened ( or did we fit a profile, reacting as
expected, even if she is terrified by what it is let loose?)</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span><center><a href="mailto:alsullivan00@gmail.com"><span style="font-size: x-large;">email to Al Sullivan</span></a></center>
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sully00http://www.blogger.com/profile/08523929037351094072noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-949849247426635438.post-70283047682566130792024-03-11T21:00:00.000-07:002024-03-11T21:00:00.135-07:00Poetry Journal June 2, 2012<p><span style="font-size: x-large;"> </span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGfwdwQlRgfKveYrb4mqWm57k59qC440Axj5LeeZlm67_jIaMpAslNzgtu9wPhzWAF7NEKhXiOpOTlEg7iSHElVwZq7UPs2vZHmWctNcD4JFRbmRPZREp1ifDIpSYL0hJ_GBJTVa57paQ3YR7dcbrshodwVnIya9__Jz0reI2AoSadXB_TNwlW5TsZjk4/s1301/06-02-12a.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1301" data-original-width="1021" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGfwdwQlRgfKveYrb4mqWm57k59qC440Axj5LeeZlm67_jIaMpAslNzgtu9wPhzWAF7NEKhXiOpOTlEg7iSHElVwZq7UPs2vZHmWctNcD4JFRbmRPZREp1ifDIpSYL0hJ_GBJTVa57paQ3YR7dcbrshodwVnIya9__Jz0reI2AoSadXB_TNwlW5TsZjk4/s320/06-02-12a.jpeg" width="251" /></span></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></div><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: x-large;">June 2, 2012</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><o:p> </o:p>We don’t look at each other across the meeting room table,
though she gives me a glance as she leaves, all this talk about photo credits
some how hiding the real issues, and my inability to keep from rubbing salt
into open wounds, mine and yet more specifically hers, I having posted poems
about having a gun held at my head which I can’t take back, missing the
important message she is trying to send me, emailed back and forth, giving credit
where credit is due, we all lost in the limbo of missed feeling and this sense
of a train wreck as whatever train we hoped to have ridden on went off its
rail, and we are left to pick up the pieces, knowing that in this disaster, we
won’t find them all, me, missing looking into her eyes and hoping to see what’s
behind them, knowing now she has built a wall impenetrable and perhaps
necessary.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span><center><a href="mailto:alsullivan00@gmail.com"><span style="font-size: x-large;">email to Al Sullivan</span></a></center>
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sully00http://www.blogger.com/profile/08523929037351094072noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-949849247426635438.post-2062000389283769182024-03-10T23:30:00.000-07:002024-03-10T23:30:00.135-07:00Poetry Journal Sept. 25, 2013<p><span style="font-size: x-large;"> </span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSnTqkxTLMsGdkUHtU9Ujn_GPBG13Ispkuc6pHudqMebeyudbUx1ZMwAnWZ8sVV9DtxF3ezs4c-3i-A2TMLNOv1JwZlA2xv_gXL9bqq2ObiEyqNawKdI3W-w9CkK2MCqxwySRc0MTXmBp8S55R8b_6xlXF8NbcAzPXxjFm5H7f8-YrzFtXKfnidpdiVdQ/s1373/09-25-13b.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1373" data-original-width="1092" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSnTqkxTLMsGdkUHtU9Ujn_GPBG13Ispkuc6pHudqMebeyudbUx1ZMwAnWZ8sVV9DtxF3ezs4c-3i-A2TMLNOv1JwZlA2xv_gXL9bqq2ObiEyqNawKdI3W-w9CkK2MCqxwySRc0MTXmBp8S55R8b_6xlXF8NbcAzPXxjFm5H7f8-YrzFtXKfnidpdiVdQ/s320/09-25-13b.jpeg" width="255" /></span></a></div><span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: x-large;">Sept 25, 2013<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><o:p> </o:p>We wait out the jury verdict and hold our breath as if the
world might come to an end for all of us, from that moment back in the bad old
days when she got the scoop about his arrest and reached out to me for help she
really didn’t need, and that moment (of) graduation from cub to old saw with me
as helpless observed and now, she
expecting to be expelled from the inner circle of cool kids she always envied
back at school, or on that yacht with that old lady who bobbled up brothers and
sisters and taught her how, and has since gobbled up all she could find, and
still hungered for more, a lost soul waiting as if she is on trial, not him, as
if her world will end with the fall of the gavel and the reading what the jury
has decided, “We’re all on the same yacht now,” she once wrote, back when she
still saw a wide open seat ahead, before she even knew f this board, before it
sprang a leak.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p><span style="font-size: x-large;"> </span></o:p></p>
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span><center><a href="mailto:alsullivan00@gmail.com"><span style="font-size: x-large;">email to Al Sullivan</span></a></center>
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sully00http://www.blogger.com/profile/08523929037351094072noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-949849247426635438.post-77588268434402228672024-03-10T21:00:00.000-07:002024-03-10T21:00:00.157-07:00Splattering up against the crazy wall Oct. 01, 2013<p><span style="font-size: x-large;"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: x-large;">Our poet had a relapse, back on the bar scene, drinking and
smoking.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: x-large;">A temporary setback, she claims in her lates wholeness diatribe.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: x-large;">Her lack of posting anything for almost three weeks suggests
she must have given up the ghost on her miracle cure.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: x-large;">What had previously been only guess work turns out to be
fact, although her exaggerated language use made it clear she didn’t quite have
the kind of confidence she claimed.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: x-large;">What is unclear is just who it is she’s caught up with this
time.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: x-large;">I mean besides the married man she fell in and out of love
with over the course of the last nine months.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: x-large;">If she’s trickling up, it isn’t for love, and perhaps her
efforts to secure the next rung in the ladder have also failed – perhaps even
with Joey D or her PR boss, who is now working the Hometown campaign, using
another one of our former writers as a spy (working as the official
spokesperson for the third party camp in order to sabotage it so that R can
become mayor).<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: x-large;">Posted yesterday, our poet admitted her struggle for change.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: x-large;">“They say you can take the girl out of Jersey, but you can’t
take the jersey out of the girl,” she wrote, changing this somewhat, “You can
take the girl out of the toxin, and into a super whole nutritional life stye,
but it doesn’t mean she ain’t still crazy as a 10-day water fast.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: x-large;">She says she’s a born perfectionist and always striving for higher
achievement and burning herself out doing so.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: x-large;">“No amount of praise or number of straight A report cards
would let me rest until I pushed myself so I would burn out and crash in a depressed
and exhausted heap, and wind up hating the task I had originally dove into with
gusto and passion, or a combination of the two,” she wrote.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: x-large;">In taking a long break from this narrative to cover breaking
news – and a poem – her essay becomes less a current event than a clearer description
of her seeking to reinvent herself yet one more time, and ultimately failing.
But also, a view of her logic since it was very hard to tell when she began
last July whether this was a confidence game or actually curing herself –
something she makes a bit clearer.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: x-large;">“Since diving whole hog into whole foods and a whole living
state of mind, I have consequently elicited a laundry list of heavy duty changes
in my 34-year-old universe. I got off my anxiety meds, made giant strides
towards recovery from my umpteenth eating disorder relapse since I was 15 and
finally rid myself of a two-year recurrent cervical HPV issue that led to two
emotionally and physically uncomfortable surgical proceeds and a good, hard
cancer scare and realized I deserved to treat myself well.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: x-large;">In other words, she sincerely believed in what she was doing
(and this suggests that even in her previous incarnations, whether it be cub or
teacher, bar tender or whatever, her launch into new enterprises was not phony,
if perhaps sometimes a bit naïve.)<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: x-large;">She bought herself a big girl couch and plants she managed
to keep a live for more than a month (in a Facebook account she claimed to have
red thumb) and When got a clean(er) bill of health, she didn’t celebrate, she
got scared – then got angry at herself for getting scared, and referred to our former
temporary boss’ recovery and inability to heal with whole food or surgery, and she
praised his valent effort.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: x-large;">She went on to praise him also for being “a fantastic writer”
who deserves a second change far more than she does and echoes her calling him
her hero earlier this month (and once more raises the speculation that he might
after all be the one she’s in love with, although I think not.)<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: x-large;">All this confessional stuff falls heavily on her shoulders. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: x-large;">“That makes me sad to write, but it’s honest,” she said. “I began
to look at all the things that I was happy with in my life and with same
unrealistic overdrive scrutiny I had when I was young, and this time, I was fueled
by a particularly mean and deep-throated voice that growled, ‘well, now you
really can’t screw up because you got a second chance and why are you so
ungrateful and – holy crap – you’re 34 and you’re single and you’re freakin
lonely and unfocused and lacking in two point five children and freakin dog and
what the hell have you got to show for all these years, and where’s your 401K
and why can’t you pay your bills…’ clearly this sort of thinking could not
sustain itself long without the end result of me splattering up against the
crazy wall.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: x-large;">She mistakenly believed, she said, that crazy ceased with
her miracle cure, somehow making up for a life time of unhealth mental and
physical conditioning.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: x-large;">“I think we can add extraordinary, unrealistic self-expectation
to my list of less than savory personality trains,” she wrote. “I also thought
that with my new life, I wasn’t convinced I deserved, I wasn’t allowed to be a
human being and slip up from time to time.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: x-large;">Few things she’d written during the last two years seemed so
utterly honest to me and revealing, answering many of the questions I raised. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: x-large;">This is one of the most talented people I know (aside from
my best friend Paulie), and she struggles just the same.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p><span style="font-size: x-large;"> </span></o:p></p>
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span><center><a href="mailto:alsullivan00@gmail.com"><span style="font-size: x-large;">email to Al Sullivan</span></a></center>
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sully00http://www.blogger.com/profile/08523929037351094072noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-949849247426635438.post-37898985667958935872024-03-09T23:00:00.000-08:002024-03-09T23:00:00.150-08:00Poetry Journal Feb. 22, 2024<p><span style="font-size: x-large;"> </span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3JRdYTS6ANwGZuFq0pk_wPNlJi5XBB454Q2rRvVnQ_MVSWcFgcIoCMZU8-iTvWo7HlN2jR5-XevCKb5HsbN2hD9zfk8dS-ZOsGk7ZCrLcoYHKn_2afIMkET4eeANvB0zFkyhBEthSORAlf_IbxRoyu5vhjW-0E2PU49JQ_241D9WSUHLUNQ4YnPNzfDA/s1328/02--22-24.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1328" data-original-width="783" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3JRdYTS6ANwGZuFq0pk_wPNlJi5XBB454Q2rRvVnQ_MVSWcFgcIoCMZU8-iTvWo7HlN2jR5-XevCKb5HsbN2hD9zfk8dS-ZOsGk7ZCrLcoYHKn_2afIMkET4eeANvB0zFkyhBEthSORAlf_IbxRoyu5vhjW-0E2PU49JQ_241D9WSUHLUNQ4YnPNzfDA/s320/02--22-24.jpeg" width="189" /></span></a></div><p><span style="font-size: x-large;">Feb. 22, 2024</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><o:p> </o:p>No one road connects here with where she is and where she
will be – but almost.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: x-large;">A path back through the past she assumed she would not see
again, a multi-lane thruway through memories she thought she would forget, each
step retraced from the present to those roads hear where she sprang, and then
beyond, present back to past, the hum of tires on the road she likely still
sees in her dreams, not quite nightmares, and yet filled with the images of one-time
hopeful success she never achieved, a road she needs to take again and not
merely for nostalgia.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p><span style="font-size: x-large;"> </span></o:p></p>
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span><center><a href="mailto:alsullivan00@gmail.com"><span style="font-size: x-large;">email to Al Sullivan</span></a></center>
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sully00http://www.blogger.com/profile/08523929037351094072noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-949849247426635438.post-57664861202239794092024-03-09T21:00:00.001-08:002024-03-09T21:00:00.130-08:00Poetry Journal July 2012 i<p><span style="font-size: x-large;"> </span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyRzkz9ePYa2Dr2bFSSRoMYDxOOv3WznohPQvkXLlH6otspGlz9EMAzGWZU7-lzggzKx-IMslCQF91u4JRqMUdV4-ZhyphenhyphenTkQek6xtZBsy_ZfkS5KZJ3SLvuBeQ-IuQcKSLRPIffjK14YeLnsb1fIaGp30TuOVDwRMsNFFe5WXY0_HyA_lM7cqIQWp8bTHM/s1284/july2012i.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1284" data-original-width="965" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyRzkz9ePYa2Dr2bFSSRoMYDxOOv3WznohPQvkXLlH6otspGlz9EMAzGWZU7-lzggzKx-IMslCQF91u4JRqMUdV4-ZhyphenhyphenTkQek6xtZBsy_ZfkS5KZJ3SLvuBeQ-IuQcKSLRPIffjK14YeLnsb1fIaGp30TuOVDwRMsNFFe5WXY0_HyA_lM7cqIQWp8bTHM/s320/july2012i.jpeg" width="240" /></span></a></div><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: x-large;">July 2012 i<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><o:p> </o:p>Of course, I remember; it is impossible to forget.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: x-large;">It clings to me even as you leave, the warmth of the sun,
the soft linen, the touch of flesh, a tender landscape over which my fingers
wander.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: x-large;">You don’t forget when you know you’ll never get back there
again.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: x-large;">The sweet scene exuded, yours, mine, even the room, all
catching fire with each heated breath, the rise and fall, the in and out, the
ever-lasting exasperation of that last gasp.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: x-large;">Of course, I remember. Even if I wanted to forget, it is here,
stuck inside me like a wishbone in my throat, poking me with each wrong move,
an ache that is more than an ache.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p><span style="font-size: x-large;"> </span></o:p></p>
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span><center><a href="mailto:alsullivan00@gmail.com"><span style="font-size: x-large;">email to Al Sullivan</span></a></center>
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sully00http://www.blogger.com/profile/08523929037351094072noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-949849247426635438.post-31454686971258883952024-03-09T21:00:00.000-08:002024-03-09T21:00:00.129-08:00Poetry Journal Feb. 20, 2024<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWdxULpk284F1XXV0qFXFJlwERTQJG8j3Q8PtDRm_-oSjP4kEZ0PXNJ5XHyRFNAsJtoarKo68tNWbSFfbEBlQPMIixqaEQ9GTm9oUEMqqE_cIdAYXBjM7VULKU-3ZlAg3Yu3UlbaOZdPMbxj1ey5FlbgG6BqMdhu9m5j6FxRdvxL7Fah53TZV4UxXviOY/s1312/02-20-24.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1312" data-original-width="756" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWdxULpk284F1XXV0qFXFJlwERTQJG8j3Q8PtDRm_-oSjP4kEZ0PXNJ5XHyRFNAsJtoarKo68tNWbSFfbEBlQPMIixqaEQ9GTm9oUEMqqE_cIdAYXBjM7VULKU-3ZlAg3Yu3UlbaOZdPMbxj1ey5FlbgG6BqMdhu9m5j6FxRdvxL7Fah53TZV4UxXviOY/s320/02-20-24.jpeg" width="184" /></span></a></div><span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /> Feb. 20, 2024</span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p><span style="font-size: x-large;"> </span></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: x-large;">She must be scared to death or maybe bored to death, having
to do this all over again after so long believing she would never have to – the
hamster wheel in her head spinning faster and faster or maybe – as Todd Rungrin
once put it – the merry-go-round she just can’t get off of or at least not on
the ground, spinning round and round, up and down, dizzying to watch even from
a distance, painful to endure since she assumed the ride had ended long, long
ago.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: x-large;">This is not what she wanted when she bought the ticket; it
is what she got stuck with, and must wait out the ride, for when the spinning
stops, wherever that goes, and wherever she ends up<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span><center><a href="mailto:alsullivan00@gmail.com"><span style="font-size: x-large;">email to Al Sullivan</span></a></center>
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sully00http://www.blogger.com/profile/08523929037351094072noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-949849247426635438.post-84191246659239270972024-03-09T00:00:00.000-08:002024-03-09T00:00:00.141-08:00Poetry Journal July 2012 h<p><span style="font-size: x-large;"> </span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIeTxFuwPSjQwW74A-p6Z5HM3PWXM7jtJw_unUcDxdBcCUc1KdlgdG5W_xMz5dYuXf2oVZzdGuBxq8bAq2J8DpMrVs1bYK_zfSGI5uNW-IBUeUw4TTE93cp4NgokLUQP6fw_RGcvyFVl3zn42agzEHEMu4qSAj1R95OWcFCNftK_LxQip23zucl4J87V4/s1295/july2012h.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1295" data-original-width="1043" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIeTxFuwPSjQwW74A-p6Z5HM3PWXM7jtJw_unUcDxdBcCUc1KdlgdG5W_xMz5dYuXf2oVZzdGuBxq8bAq2J8DpMrVs1bYK_zfSGI5uNW-IBUeUw4TTE93cp4NgokLUQP6fw_RGcvyFVl3zn42agzEHEMu4qSAj1R95OWcFCNftK_LxQip23zucl4J87V4/s320/july2012h.jpeg" width="258" /></span></a></div><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: x-large;">July 2012 h<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: x-large;">I rub the clam shell with both my thumbs, and think of you, wearing
myself raw, leaving bits of flesh behind for you to remember me by, a jealous
child, hurting all over except where the skin rubs raw.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: x-large;">I rub the clam shell with both thumbs to cure the ach that goes
deep down into my bones.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: x-large;">The more I rub, the worse it gets, I need to rub all of me
against all of you, and leave me smeared over all of you, to relieve the pain.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: x-large;">The claim shell’s pattern imprinted on me, inside of me,
just as you are or were, now I can’t tell, thumbs feeling the rough surface, rubbing
it smooth, though it is my flesh that wears out first, until I have no more
flesh to give, and still, I keep rubbing.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p><span style="font-size: x-large;"> </span></o:p></p>
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span><center><a href="mailto:alsullivan00@gmail.com"><span style="font-size: x-large;">email to Al Sullivan</span></a></center>
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sully00http://www.blogger.com/profile/08523929037351094072noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-949849247426635438.post-46278531163718476772024-03-08T23:30:00.000-08:002024-03-08T23:30:00.131-08:00Poetry Journal Sept. 24, 2013<p><span style="font-size: x-large;"> </span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAuYv672DxaFj2TzkI-TZ1RiwB0CuI70HWdQCERg9PKFCaPaCsmOPVmOscvUROpp-MzFfAYtiTgiUHnvswR0UHVRiIDRJLxJ_RgFXGXjP5ZGasUYux3-pNDDGVIVSzwTaZDF7wGtgffXcSMO9QOQm5J9k303sWYZF2UxxnAE0AKM1u0W2TlHEe7mc_ZTE/s1268/09-24-13.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1268" data-original-width="1048" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAuYv672DxaFj2TzkI-TZ1RiwB0CuI70HWdQCERg9PKFCaPaCsmOPVmOscvUROpp-MzFfAYtiTgiUHnvswR0UHVRiIDRJLxJ_RgFXGXjP5ZGasUYux3-pNDDGVIVSzwTaZDF7wGtgffXcSMO9QOQm5J9k303sWYZF2UxxnAE0AKM1u0W2TlHEe7mc_ZTE/s320/09-24-13.jpeg" width="264" /></span></a></div><span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: x-large;">Sept. 24, 2013</span></p><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><o:p> </o:p>It is not a matter of Jekel and Hyde, so much as how to keep
one life from seeping into the other, the professions from the personal, this
face from that, and with her I never knew which one I was speaking to, except in
the dad of night when she put one face away and wore only the one I most wanted
to see, not that I disliked the other face, the one who knew so much more than I
ever would.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: x-large;">I admire both the way I might two different people, both
equally a treat, both people I would love to meet, one in the office across the
battle, the other in a bar with a glass of win in her hands, and now with no
chance to meet either, I wonder which of these she is, and whether she prefers
one over the other, and would I know either if I men them on the street.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p><span style="font-size: x-large;"> </span></o:p></p><span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span><p></p>
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span><center><a href="mailto:alsullivan00@gmail.com"><span style="font-size: x-large;">email to Al Sullivan</span></a></center>
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sully00http://www.blogger.com/profile/08523929037351094072noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-949849247426635438.post-81190545405708175312024-03-08T21:00:00.001-08:002024-03-08T21:00:00.247-08:00Poetry Journal 2012g<p><span style="font-size: x-large;"> </span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPB29uNDCuUMjhVTRlyx75s5aeyKNSi-SbdPos5Q_2Kciwi8LU5ZtFxrkCnhOvFVJv5tA3-e1ENHRvkQ_cjS1jYGM-6K85Ab6Spu_1GkuAh6rG_rQ7PRdELUnOj9hgg4XXmBF0Zd_YUbNbGKAp4Br0yXqPFRplEworO_v1kof8LtO0IgQWWqxhYztCRMc/s1262/july2012g.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1262" data-original-width="982" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPB29uNDCuUMjhVTRlyx75s5aeyKNSi-SbdPos5Q_2Kciwi8LU5ZtFxrkCnhOvFVJv5tA3-e1ENHRvkQ_cjS1jYGM-6K85Ab6Spu_1GkuAh6rG_rQ7PRdELUnOj9hgg4XXmBF0Zd_YUbNbGKAp4Br0yXqPFRplEworO_v1kof8LtO0IgQWWqxhYztCRMc/s320/july2012g.jpeg" width="249" /></span></a></div><span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: x-large;">July 2012g<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p><span style="font-size: x-large;"> </span></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: x-large;">If we rub against each other long and hard enough, we might
ignite – no boy scout ritual this, no sticks to set aflame., we the sticks we
need to spark, the more we rub, the hotter it all becomes.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: x-large;">Can we stand it, the fire?<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: x-large;">Do we do this to create magic the way old witches do, to
make something from nothing, to create joy out of the steady rub of flesh, my
skin against your skin, my lips against your lips, my hips against yours, ever
pressing until it all explodes?<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: x-large;">If we run hard enough and long enough, can we make fire?<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: x-large;">Do we risk it? Do we even understand what it means when we
try, rubbing as hard as we can until we wear each other thin?<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span><center><a href="mailto:alsullivan00@gmail.com"><span style="font-size: x-large;">email to Al Sullivan</span></a></center>
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sully00http://www.blogger.com/profile/08523929037351094072noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-949849247426635438.post-48094402509255874152024-03-08T21:00:00.000-08:002024-03-08T21:00:00.247-08:00Tease him he will love it Sept. 30, 2013<p><span style="font-size: x-large;"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: x-large;">I’m really slipping. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: x-large;">Perhaps because I don’t check her blog often enough these
days and so miss things she posts such as the poem she posted back on Sept. 3,
which I knew nothing about until I stumbled on it today,<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: x-large;">It is an odd piece because on first reading it seems to
deviate from the pretty consistent theme her poems have adopted since the
beginning of the year – although on a closer inspection, it may well be right
in line with the series of poems about her relationship with a married man, and
in some ways appears to contradict itself in passing judgement on those people
who cheat, stirring up a now-distant memory of something she said to me when we
first started to communicate privately.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: x-large;">“Married men cheat with me,” she’d said. “I don’t cheat.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: x-large;">This poem comes at the height of her desperation to regain
the relationship she lost (I am making a vast assumption about who the man she
had an affair of the mind with earlier this year and what has transpired
since,)<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: x-large;">This poem is most likely an imagined conversation (with
herself or some aspect of self) on how to get a man to want her: “Ignore him.
Guys love it when you’re unavailable.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: x-large;">Which unfortunately is a psychological truth, and perhaps
something she engaged in earlier in her life, and possibly also earlier in her
lost relationship, dangling honey in anticipation that a bear cannot resist it
and will do just about anything he can to get a lick.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: x-large;">But the other party in this imagined conversation says, “guys
should learn celibacy,” and that a relationship requires availability, and
honesty, “a far as I understand them.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: x-large;">At which point, she points out, maybe she should talk because
she’s not in a relationship at the moment.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: x-large;">Because this poem come when it does, you have to wonder if
she is sending a message, somewhat bitter, perhaps resenting the fact that she
seems to have become the side gal to the man she legitimately loves, maybe suggesting
that he should not be visiting her bed when – if he really loves his wife – he should
remain loyal and not have side sex at all.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: x-large;">In other of her poems – and one in particular – she claimed
sex was so good with him she could die contented. And so this poem does not
appear to say what it claims to say n the surface, and perhaps says he should
be with her, share her bed or not have a relationship at all.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: x-large;">Is there a touch of the green-eyed monster in this?<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: x-large;">In a previous poem, she seems to have disparaged his other
life in the suburbs, mocking a life she doesn’t want, while he appears to cling
to it.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: x-large;">She posted this poem the day after Labor Day, a weekend that
traditionally ends the summer vacation season, a weekend where couples usually
get away before falling back into the dull routine of work or school, and this
suggests she is by herself, and clearly doesn’t like it, and since poems she’s
posted before and after were focused on him, you have to think this one is as
well, as if she is trying to figure out some new strategy to bring him back.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: x-large;">But if she attempted to ignore him, the plan didn’t last
long, she unable to resist the honey she once tased and would like to taste
again<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p><span style="font-size: x-large;"> </span></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p><span style="font-size: x-large;"> </span></o:p></p>
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span><center><a href="mailto:alsullivan00@gmail.com"><span style="font-size: x-large;">email to Al Sullivan</span></a></center>
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sully00http://www.blogger.com/profile/08523929037351094072noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-949849247426635438.post-31597324286600429802024-03-07T23:30:00.001-08:002024-03-07T23:30:00.136-08:00Poetry Journal July 2012f<p><span style="font-size: x-large;"> </span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0gzacaMK7JejjD-U19shJOFkjmYEVIGICJZsj3Ps3Ys_muZ2TRiHjSpMGwAMPW5KxfJp_cIaZuecFlA7jtfjZO5SQ48wrOG8loyiavqXqiXOaqzijyDHBOJs6Tui-G-uFrc9-CyLxNoKUS6p5o8QELGHeCemlfOaC5Sd1VjMxep7N-mDzGhUjbKRfLcE/s1312/july2012f.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1312" data-original-width="982" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0gzacaMK7JejjD-U19shJOFkjmYEVIGICJZsj3Ps3Ys_muZ2TRiHjSpMGwAMPW5KxfJp_cIaZuecFlA7jtfjZO5SQ48wrOG8loyiavqXqiXOaqzijyDHBOJs6Tui-G-uFrc9-CyLxNoKUS6p5o8QELGHeCemlfOaC5Sd1VjMxep7N-mDzGhUjbKRfLcE/s320/july2012f.jpeg" width="240" /></span></a></div><span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: x-large;">July 2012f<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p><span style="font-size: x-large;"> </span></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: x-large;">You drip into my open mouth, one slow drip at a time, less
nectar than honey I steal from the birds and bees in the dark of night.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: x-large;">You drip into my open mouth until I am inebriated, less
sweet than potent, a potion that makes me ache, and still, I ache for more.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: x-large;">You drip into me, over me, like hot wax that scalds at first
touch, then turns tender as it cools, the scene of leaves and trees stirred up,
a taste in me.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: x-large;">You drip onto my eyes until I am blind, leaving me to rely
on touch, and I touch you, feeling you in a whole new way, the curves of flash,
the moist places, the rough places, the place I need to go.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: x-large;">You drip onto me, a Chinese torture that drives me insane,
and I don’t mind.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span><center><a href="mailto:alsullivan00@gmail.com"><span style="font-size: x-large;">email to Al Sullivan</span></a></center>
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sully00http://www.blogger.com/profile/08523929037351094072noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-949849247426635438.post-39467678099616412632024-03-07T23:30:00.000-08:002024-03-07T23:30:00.137-08:00Poetry Journal June 2, 2012<p><span style="font-size: x-large;"> </span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZf_cuvfL1t-LTwSFv34Gf-0mcEZDGrUStklKbjfYcIw2Z4e6V26CnPu12fte8vmPKy0-ybwJlJJ5cVWyZhGfBQjqR2h4y_WDsISMd6q5ioN5GXvw5FEoqxPJUf_yFc4ZZdP93qjL7i55HrKnRI4CVbgYibc1XClsGl28cx1z3f6GjSvtXuLxX8AbUedE/s1235/06-02-12.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1235" data-original-width="1054" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZf_cuvfL1t-LTwSFv34Gf-0mcEZDGrUStklKbjfYcIw2Z4e6V26CnPu12fte8vmPKy0-ybwJlJJ5cVWyZhGfBQjqR2h4y_WDsISMd6q5ioN5GXvw5FEoqxPJUf_yFc4ZZdP93qjL7i55HrKnRI4CVbgYibc1XClsGl28cx1z3f6GjSvtXuLxX8AbUedE/s320/06-02-12.jpeg" width="273" /></span></a></div><p><span style="font-size: x-large;">June 2, 2012</span></p><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: x-large;">It is like a dance in which we take turns taking the lead,
she giving me credit for a photo I’ve taken, while I give her credit for one of
hers I use, the whole time I try to ignore the cold feel of the 45 magnum she
has pressed up against my temple, telling me if I bother her again she’ll shot –
documents sent to warn me, accompanied by a note to say she’s also given them
to a law enforcement official in case I don’t, while I wonder, just who put
this idea into her head, loading the gun with bullets I know will destroy me if
I do anything other than what she say, the niceties of the dance painfully
mocking me as we go through the motions of pretending all is back to what it
was when in fact it’s my back against the wall, she giving me credit for picture,
only not the picture she hates me for taking, she saying: “Don’t move or else!”</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></div><span style="font-size: x-large;"><br />
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