Thursday, October 15, 2026

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

Wednesday, October 14, 2026

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

Sunday, October 11, 2026

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

Thursday, October 8, 2026

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

Wednesday, October 7, 2026

Mixed messages Dec. 27, 2013

  

Timing is everything

So the mysterious appearance of Mistress Kaya and her alleged ties to our poet’s past seemed particularly suspicious, as if part of some elaborate plot I suspect is only in my mind.

I don’t trust it, or even some of the things I have read into her poems over the last two years (in particular those poems she has since removed  - which hint and suggest but refuse to say anything out right.)

I speculate that parts of some of these poems may be aimed at me, but she is as clever and illusive as she claims me to be.

I admit, I have tried to remain unseen, whether when checking in on her poetry or dealing with political people who had just too close to her for my own good.

The last thing I need is to give her and her public safety director friend more ammunition to use to prove I am stalking her,

And yet, there are times I react, and wish for her to come out of her shell and reveal herself. While to some degree she has, but always doing so in a way that allows her to cover her tracks and give her deniability.

 While there is room for other interpretations of her priority poem (which is why she left it up on her blog), her poem on trickling up may have been just too blatant and why she removed it, at least once from her site.

The two poems I know she removed seem to have come as a result of her panicking, as if she believed she had revealed too much.

And I’m never certain when she aims a poem (or part of one) at me. It is also difficult to know if I am on her radar at all (despite her calling the cops at the congressman’s event).

Most of the time when I interpret her poetry, I am guessing about the deeper meaning.

This Christmas, I posted photos of my desk covered with what I called “presents” which included an angled shot of my open notebook into which I had transcribed one of her poems.

Almost immediately afterwards, she posted a similarly angled photo with the out-of-focus image of the edition of our paper she’d worked for – only with my story on the front cover. More than a coincidence, I think, if not quite meeting the criteria as a message.

Early on (during the worst moments of our conflict now almost a year and a half ago), I had assumed our poet was being controlled by dark forces and that she inserted items in her poetry that she wanted to say to me, but could not do so openly (more than a bit of wishful thinking on my part, no doubt.)

She certainly has fallen in with some questionable characters, who have used her talents for their own terrible purposes.

The image of my story on the cover of her paper posted on her Facebook page confuses me because I don’t know if it means good or ill, or that she still clings to some thread of hope (to regain the man she loves) as some of her resent poems suggest. Or is she as the congressman’s PR person believe, simply spinning webs, setting traps I have avoided in the past. All this made even more suspicious by this woman’s sudden appearance and her claims of connections to our poet’s past.

I don’t believe her, but it has the makings of a trap.

Am I supposed to fall head over heals for this woman or let her turn me into a sissy or a slave?

If the dark forces sent her with that aim, then they have misread everything concerning me and the poet, thinking they can lure me into a trap with another woman, when the only woman in this picture I care about is the poet.


email to Al Sullivan

Sunday, October 4, 2026

Bride’s maid (response to her poem) April 21, 2012

 

 

I keep hearing the old song in my head,

 "I heard you're getting married,"

the best thing for her,

but the worst thing that could happen to him.

Only now for you being a bride, as you point out,

 ain't all it's cracked up to be,

a human sacrifice to some inhuman god,

though I can imagine how magnificent

you must look dressed up in all white,

how sad an expression you wear with it,

like someone sentenced to a life term

in some lockup, a ring through your nose

or on your finger, as frustrated as a lion,

going stir crazy as you wait at home

for him (whomever that might be)

 with pipe and slippers and the drink

 he'll need to get over the pressures of work,

a perfect concubine expected to serve him.

 


email to Al Sullivan