A perpetual fog Jan 12, 2025

 

Stuck here miles from home, I wander places I have not wandered in years, I'm saddled with old ghosts near and far, my deceased one time best friend here and the quite still alive but distant poet friend back home, his place spiffed up and sold off, her place like a dark Tower against the City full of towers, still taller than hers, I can't pass either without feeling some kind of ache, the Lost past with him, the vacant perpetual of what might have been with her, both vague like a fog out of which anything might emerge, except for anything I might want, this vacancy life leaves us with, yet without any way to fill both places, haunted mansions I dare not to get too close to, scared of what I might see if I do and so I float this way and that in this perpetual fog looking for a way out

email to Al Sullivan

Devil; Worship Aug. 8, 2013

 Satanism is not Devil Worship, my best friend tells me when I tell him about her, the only girl I've professed to love I've never taken to meet him, and so, he never stole, this Irish Catholic boy, whose theme song is "Sympathy for the Devil," and who knows the dark side better than anybody I know, fed up with a God would would deny us all our earthly pleasures, those things that make life on the planet bearable ,only God would make us wait for uncertainly in the afterlife, when we need to embrace it now or spend our lives in mortal damnation.

"Hell is on earth," he says, then echoes something she wrote in a poem about fair being unfair, and good being bad. "You don't kneed a black mass to get something good out of all this," he says. "And don't need God to deny you happiness."

email to Al Sullivan

Waiting for the thaw to come Jan 23, 2025

The cold locks us in its embrace almost as soon as the snow ceases, the dead of winter with more than a few weeks before groundhog tells us if we get an early spring, those are the darkest days we must somehow endure, waiting out the winter, bundled up in our beds, rubbing against each other like boy scouts sticks with the vain hope we can offset the chill

 I prefer the hot days when we work up a sweat that way, feeling every inch, the soft embrace of bodies in motion, no desperate attempt, just pure pleasure of it.

 it is difficult to feel anything grand with numb fingers or toes, with that one part shrinking under the deep freeze and no way to thaw out, yet perhaps it is best way to get through it all, one deep inch at a time

email to Al Sullivan

Stirring the coals April 6, 2012

 

I don't know

where her voice ends

and the dreams begin,

having talked to her

on the phone at night,

nodding off with her

still in my ears

her shape in my vision.

She sends me pictures

that ooze into me

stir up something

I did not know

 could be stirred.

Like someone with a stick

 stirring up coals to a fire

I assumed long dead,

her shape floating up with the sparks,

 her voice as sweet as

the songs she sings

, and as devastating,

 leaving me to clutch my pillows,

 leaving me vacant

when I wake and realize

she's not there with me,

just as mirage I see on the ceiling

 as I open my eyes,

 a mist that dissipates

with daylight,

leaving me stirred and cooked.

 

email to Al Sullivan

Tea time for Alice May 5, 2014

  

Everything is a dream, a mist that drifts over this vague landscape, exposing things at odd moments, just not all at once, or all we need to see, the places, part of a dreamscape we revisit again and again at night, never real enough, often a tease, like a sad Alice stopping briefly for a bit of tea, unable to make sense of what she sees, when she meets those who take tea with her, and so, she moves on from this seat at the table to the next, hoping the tea will taste better, or the view might bring her Joy, nothing she sees adding any detail to the dream, nothing to part the mist she strolls through, or explain how big she seems at times, or small, as she sneaks through keyholes into places she was never meant to be, all of it too vague, too unreal, and yet at the end of the day, it is also all she has, and might have to live with

 

email to Al Sullivan

Free bird November 13, 2014

 

I hold it up in both my hands

This trembling, feathered creature

I can identify only as a bird

Because it has wings,

Broken wings on which it

Cannot fly away,

But will the moment I mend them,

The way it must

Its soft touch lingering

On the tips of my fingers

And on my lips as I wish it well,

Aching to touch it again,

And again feels its softness

Against my calloused palms,

Feeling its warmth against

My warmth,

It breathing my breath

This precious moment

Caught in an instant

And release, this heart break,

This lasting gift that

Must be given away,

Real and unreal,

Previous, but not possessed,

A dream dreamed

But not forgotten,

A memory so vivid

It always seems real,

My wings broken like its are,

My heart throbbing

With the same need,

My gaze fixed upon it

As it sails into the sky,

A bird with wings

Then just a dot

Against the brightness

And then gone.

email to Al Sullivan

The knight of night Sept 30, 2012

 

What is it that so attracts her thus if not a ring of gold on her finger or the fence that keeps the mowed lawn contained

does she love for the sake of love or is love simply not enough, and who would be the waking soul if she could have he wants, it all, the arm around her when she drifts to sleep still there when the morning light peeps in, and who would be the person invited, someone who is heart is so beknighted, the face that would not fade in time but remain as potent as to remind her how good a lover can be at last, as to compare with those of the past, that it is all so astounding that the face she sees at night is still around when the morning bells toll  and her gaze still fully adores, can she really find such a man, someone she can keep near at hand, that indeed would astound, if he could really be found

 

email to Al Sullivan

Melted metal September 15, 2014

It rumbles through you

Like a late night earthquake

The back beat ripping

Open this thin civilized veneer

To expose what we all are

Deep inside,

The tsunami rushing

Through out vein

To some primitive call

We thought we had

Long evolved from

We breathe deep breaths

And drink deep draughts

And still it comes on

A fire in the belly of a beast

We all become
the screech of loud guitar

Like a hot poker

Stirring up slumbering coals

Until we turn into melted metal

Aching for that moment

When inspiration makes us

Solid again,

This life gets into the blood

And then lays dormant

Even after all these years

All pretence at being

So prim and proper

Until the first note

Like the first light of dawn

And we crumble

To the rumble and shake

And we become what

We have always been,

Swept up and consumed

Inside and out,

The floor boards vibrating

Not from the bass drum,

But from something inside us

Pushing its way out.

email to Al Sullivan

Eyes as gateway to… Jan 11, 2015

  

I can escape her eyes, even in memory, like an open invitation to a party where I do not belong, eyes a gateway to more than just her soul, to the rest of her. to her slanted mouth I take an invitation to a kiss. she most likely doesn't mean. or to her perky breasts I ache to hold as I mount her, this dream is memory, all coming from that look, from her gaze, eyes that swallow me whole, making me want to get in on the other side to see what she sees when she looks at me, The uninvited guest to a party that is for anyone else but me, eyes clinging  to that residue of desire, maybe fear, always doubtful of my intentions, waiting and watching to see what I might do next

email to Al Sullivan

Asbury Park 9/13/14

Autumn falls on the boardwalk

With a gush of rain

Like a stage curtain coming down

On what was

To leave what will be

The creak of wood moans

Under my footstep

As I make my way passed

Madam Marie’s,

A slick, precarious trip

But no longer scalding

As it was

Not extinguished

But a mist rising

From each crack

Like steam

From a tea kettle

I feel the bubbling

Inside of me

Even as my brow drips

With the cool broth

Of this changing season

The vacancy of the place

Only making the urgency acute

Winter forces it all inward

Putting pressure

On this frail frame

That stumbles over

This sacred ground,

Aching even now to be

The savior that rises

From these streets,

From the spidery web

Of the ruined casino

To the crumbling art deco

Of the once and future theater

And back again

As rain washes over me

And through me

To the sound of the nearby sea

email to Al Sullivan

Fits like a glove Jan 10, 2015

 

It fits like a glove only it is not a glove, and I use more than my fingers to fill it, drawn in, feeling each inch inside, like a glove that is not a glove, and I swell to fill it, and still feel the need to feel more, to fill it up with all of me, and all that I can get pumped out of me, the in and out of it, tight, tighter still, and deeper, a pain cure for a pain I feel each time, the need to release it, yet never too soon, edging in, teasing the tip before I can make it fit, like a glove that is not a glove, a place filled with more than just my fingers or my tongue, tight tighter still, drawing me in so deep I cannot get out, never want to ,going in and in more, feeling how tight it can get around me

email to Al Sullivan

Zen September 13, 2014

 

I press the button

And hear the distant sound

Of machines and cables
bringing up or down

The cage I need

This vertical lift

We ride to and from

Destinations marked out

On no road maps

The elevation marked
on no altimeter

But rather inside my head

Where I leave marks

Of my own importance

The way my uncles did

In pencil on the dinning room

Door frame when I was small

To see how much I’d grown

Though now I am no taller

Yet still need to measure

How high I stand,

If I have lost stature

And how to get it back if I have

Who I am reflected

Not in any mirror

But on the faces of those I see

Through the small window

Of my cage

As I travel floor by floor,

My life measured

In the groan of cables

Above and below

When all I really want

Is to be where I am

At any given moment,

Free of the need to be

High or low,

Rich or poor,

Powerful or powerless,

email to Al Sullivan

Light and dark Nov 10, 2024

 

sharp sun light splits my world like a comic book mask, one side bright, the other side black, forcing me to choose what side I wish to reside in, when I can’t have both, scalding light, illuminating the path along this River but casts huge places into deep dark, no moderation here, not even the sore face of the water where the glints of sunlight is most intense, this path bringing me to the edge again, to the places full of memory, scorched out of my brain from too much glare, I follow along a trail I took  in less brittle days, my feet knowing where I've been even if I can no longer see it and must rely on my intuition to keep going and my memory of days when things were less divided. and those brief glimpses of Joy I recall and treasure, even if I can no longer see them

 

email to Al Sullivan

Full moon September 09, 2014

It is hot and wet

When I get there

A moving target

That closes in

Around me

And shifts

This way, then that,

Up and down

And sideways

Until I’m drunk

On the movement

As any sailor

Something stirring

In the depth of me

I’ve not quite

Felt before,

A rising to the tides

As if you were a full moon,

And I change

On your account

This hard and soft of it

Commingled

And always shifting

Like wind driven beach sand,

As if to cease moving

Is to cease to exist

With me wrapped up

In all that you are,

The need of it

Burning in us both

Making it impossible

To breathe for whole moments,

As I hold onto your sides

This ride, this rise and fall,

This ache and release,

All there is to think about

Or feel,

The perfect Zen moment

When time stops

But we cannot.

email to Al Sullivan

The real me Nov. 9, 2024

 

My shoes splash through mud left from a brief night time rain, sunlight glistening in each puddle as morning comes, and I rush off to places I'd rather not be, the endless ritual of routine that lacks meaning merely aids in survival, not of the fittest, just those who learn to comply, while inside as always, another shadow lurks, one that aches to break free too, violate something or someone, to find joy in being bad, the excess of who I am spilling out of me from every pore, the need to fill up all those holes and still have something left to do so again, the splash of my feet over muddy landscape, my shape perverted in the reflections of puddles disturbed by my passing, reflection of my real and distorted me, I keep locked up

 

email to Al Sullivan

Brush fire September 04, 2014

Our fingers brush and something sparks

A device in me Tommy Edison barely imagined

Turbines turning with that first contact

And once begun unable to stop

I can barely move without feeling it poke me

From the inside out

So scalding I dare not touch it

Or expose it to air

Knowing that like phosphorous

It will explode into a flame I cannot contain

And barely kept quiet as I stagger around with it

A hobbling man with burning fingers

From a touch I never intended

But cannot take back,

I can’t even find the fuse that touch lit

Only hear its hissing inside my head

And sense its growth I cannot long handle,

Sitting or standing or stumbling around,
I can only suck at my finger tips

Like a child hoping to suck away the burn

Wishing I could taste something,

Wondering if the rumbling inside

Leads finally to something else.

email to Al Sullivan

Deluded Sept 29, 2012

 

She says she doesn't hate all men, just some, then looks at me, we both carrying the baggage of love that might never have been love, just the shadow moving across our eyes, unsubstantial, mistaken shape we can maybe see for what it is, dare we step out of this cave to see what real love looks like in the light of day, or will we wilt under its scalding pressures as it unveils us, reveals the illusion we foolishly mistook as real, do we prefer the darkness, this Shadow, knowing it for what it is, yet preferring it to what otherwise brings discomfort, to face reality, to bear the scolding light, we must shed what we assumed, does her hatred to some men mean she already stepped out into the brightness of a light I cannot bear to see, as I remain here, deluded

 

email to Al Sullivan

Milk and honey September 02, 2014

It is enough to fill you up,

I pour it all from the pitcher of milk

Into a glass filled half way with honey

I just don’t know when to top

To keep it from running over

And oozing down the sides.

I know don’t know if I can stop this

After having stoked this up

And caused it to flow,

You don’t stop a boulder

You set rolling down a hill

By running in front of it,

You just let it roll

Yet I feel run over by it anyway,

Feel each drip of milk

As it slips out the spout,

Wondering at what mixture it makes

When it makes with you

Do I stir it or let it settle?

Do I keep pumping it up?

And pour it in?

Should I ask you to taste it

To see if it tastes right?

And do I ask if anything else

Came come of this –

Some higher purpose

For all the energy we expend

The milkmaid and the milkman

Churching up this concoction

To make butter,

Or perhaps it is enough to church

Both letting the stone roll

Or the broth drip over

The edges.

email to Al Sullivan

Flowers without thorns May 4, 2014

 

Not all flowers come with thorns, not all draw blood if gripped too tightly, this though, among so many other mental rumblings, coming into my head as I wake from bed, stiff, excited, yet warmed by the warm air spring brings, the new season firmly rooted after more than a month of dismal rain, pain bringing with it pleasure, if we endure enough, the dead roses from the dead of winter, replaced in part with other pleasures, other flowers, other of hearts, flowers with which we might never part, I think, as ease from sleep into the welcome warmer world, sunlight with its ever cheerful mood and always bright outlook, streaming through the window as I wake, partake the days refreshment, the rituals of morning giving away to those of the afternoon, the scent of New birth sweet and in part yet dark too, as if the turf out of which spring springs, no thorns to prick our fingers on yet just  not pure joy

email to Al Sullivan

Laying it on thick (from My Little Book of E) ,August 31, 2014

I smear it on with both hands

Just for the excuse to lick it off

To feel the hard and soft of it,

To linger near the top

And delve into the bottom

To know it all with the best part of me

To taste what I touch,

To feel each inch of landscape

By having moved over it,

And I move slowly

As not to miss anything

Each flaw a treasure,

Each ripple a luxurious side trip

To fit with the tip or lip

As I move on,

There is always too much to

Take in all at once

Too many tiny places

To slip in and out of,

Too little time
to know as much as I should,

And like a road-weary tourist

I vow to explore this or that

On my next trip

Aching for the chance 

At least one more encounter,

Hoping beyond hope

That I have done enough

To deserve another lick

Smearing it all on so thick

I can’t possibly miss

My next try.

email to Al Sullivan