Aching for a grand slam May 15, 2024

 

 

I won’t pretend

To understand

How she feels

Or why she needs

To go so far

When life pitches her

A curve ball.

She always swings too hard

She always tries to reach the stands,

Why does it seem so complicated

When we all ought to simply

Have what we need,

And get what we want,

Grab what we think we deserve,

Finding pleasure in a pleasant

Afternoon ride

All else intruding on us,

Making magic moments

Unserviceable,

When they ought to be

Full of joy.

I don’t pretend to know here,

Only the edges of what she reveals,

The outlines of a promising life

She is so desperate to lead

If only fate

Or god

Will let her.

email to Al Sullivan

When a noun loves Oct. 20, 2026

 

And yes, after all these years, the noun is still infatuated with the adjective’s amazing beauty, the sentence telling its tale each day, a recollection of affection to the point of perishing, but no pink pot full of flowers on her kitchen table, no smoke billowing out the window where she perched, no longing on the grass that overlooks the river we both share, even if miles apart, noun and adjective in need of a verb to feel complete, those nights in the midst of conjunction, “and” without a “but” while in the end, I’m still lost in her eyes and – as the poet says – “ears, nose and throat,” she always the enchantress that enchanted me outside that German bar, a kiss that can never be undone, until language itself is destroyed, this poem, this sentence, this existence, dedicated to her, the adjective that complements the noun, inviting the verb to make it all seem real.

 

 

email to Al Sullivan

All on the same yacht Sept 25, 2013

 

 We hold our breath

As we wait for the verdict

as if the world

will end for all of us

A blast from the past

When she got the scoop

He’d gotten busted,

Reaching out to me for hel

she really didn’t need,

that moment (of) graduation

from cub to old saw

with me as helpless observer 

fast forward to now

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 gobbled up brothers and sisters

and taught her how,

gobbling up all she can find

still hungering for me,

a lost soul waiting

as if she is on trial,

not him,

as if her world will end

with the fall of the gavel

, “We’re all on the same yacht now,”

 she once wrote,

back when she still saw

 a wide open sea ahead,

 before she even knew

the boat she’s one

had sprung a leak..

 

email to Al Sullivan

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