admission of guilt 2014

  

I admit it 

I wanted to get sucked into it

 lost in the desert

unable to find my way out again

aching for her Oasis

 brain numb

not at all in control

of where I am

where I might end up

wanting her to hold it all in her hands

aces up her sleeve

I admit I wanted not to have to think about it

 to go where it went

to end up  whatever way it happened

a space cadet floating in a vacuum

 with her steering his spaceship

I admit I wanted to lose my soul

to have her take it

have her twisted in any shape she desires

I admit I wanted to stumble around in the fog

 waiting for her

 a female Jack the ripper

to find me and do with me

whatever she wanted

 I admit that I still want

what I wanted then

 

email to Al Sullivan

gifts. aug 2, 2024

  

I learned the lesson the hard way

when she gives you a gift

 take it no matter how small

 it is not insignificant

like those from back when

 she came to my desk

asking for things she didn't need

 seeking to keep the connection alive

and I foolishly always wanted more

 like a birthday at the bar

or the poems about quicksand or compassion

and now all these years later

 we are connected again

 remotely, barely

 a fragile hookup

I dare not question

I just let it happen

 grateful for the significance

the non-verbal clicks

that wake me up each morning

and put me to sleep at night

 whether he loves me or hates me

 it does not matter

this in wire that has

each of us on each end

remotely

together

email to Al Sullivan

I dream of it Sept. 9, 2014

 

 

I still dream of us, even when I don’t want to, the remorse gazing out at me at night, when I am alone, when I am desperate to pump it all out to keep from exploding.

After this long, you’d assume I would cease to percolate, when in fact I boil all the more, even more than I did before, dream upon dream I wake from to find not real, reeling from the impact of imagined hips engaged, pounding like jackhammers, digging as deep as I dare to go.

I still dream of it, even when I know I ought not to, the attraction of heavenly bodies still as potent as the Big Bang.

At what point does the universe cease to expand, contracting only when I come back to consciousness. It only grows in my sleep, hard as steel, prodding at the soft boundaries of the pliable universe, which groans with the banging of bedposts on the cheap motel walls, the desperate cries I hear turning out to be my own, always wanting more.

I dream of it when I know I shouldn’t. I just can’t stop.

email to Al Sullivan

conquest. 2014

  

I am not Alexander

from that Old Sanskrit poem

 conquering nothing

not even her heart

still I linger in that same city

overlooking that same rive

r the 7th heaven on the hill

with its string of rooms

at the end of which there is

only one bed

 one woman sleeping in it,

that shining Jewel still

glowing on the horizon

still a memory of her there

 forever even though I know

she might not be there someday

I am no Alexander

 who has conquered all

I dwell in the memory of only one conquest

 I would have made

if I could if I could go back

 to one city, one house, one room, one bed

where one woman resides

And one heart I need to conquer

email to Al Sullivan

Don’t know how to stop aug 30, 2024

 

I ought to stop

each post from the past

digs it all up again in me

so I begin to feel now as I did then

when I thought it was all behind me

 when in truth it never is

when feelings as go as deep as these

 they cannot be exhumed only buried

and perpetually they try to rise up again

so each breath I breathe today

is filled with what came then

and recalling those days

digging them up even faster

 bringing them to the surface

makes it impossible to bury them again

I feel as I always felt regardless

of time or distance or all the other stuff

that clutters the in between

I ought to stop

 but each time I try

 I feel the impact of endings and loss

and so I must keep on digging up

 re-examining feelings

that I always secretly felt

even when I pretended I didn't

 

email to Al Sullivan

precious stones 2014

  

my love is not a diamond

 as some old poets might suggest

no sharp edges upon which

 I might cut myself

nor is she a nugget gold

 so Grand all men lust after her

 precious and yet not as appealing

 as I might achieve

 my love is a pearl

her skin so smooth

her touch so cool

easy to take under my tongue

to revel on her

to digest her

 as if I am the oyster that gave her birth

my fingers stroking her

 polishing her

feeling her curved flesh

 as vivid in my brain

as if I could see her blind

more precious than all

the precious stones

and all I could ever want

email to Al Sullivan

Kind and true aug 5,2024

  

ancient poets tell us

that she being free

or witty or pretty

does not always make her attractive

but rather how kind and true

a quality I'd not appreciated

 that for the right partner

the fitting partner

she can be kind and true

the rest of us lost in the fog

 of our attraction for her

her will, her eyes

 her smile, her breast

building a fire in our hearts

over what we see in her

 but maybe not what she is inside

kind and true

this aspect the most attractive

and yet all the rare

set aside for some lucky man

who is gentle enough

 and kind enough

to see who she really is inside

email to Al Sullivan

A kiss thief Oct. 22, 2025

  

I can’t say for sure, who kissed who or even why, a stolen kiss in the dark of night, I would never give back, a thief in the night who steals kissed whenever I can, filling a vacant space with them for a time when I might be too infirmed to steal anything anymore, a bandit who uses kisses instead of a gun, stopping you on the street demanding affection instead of treasure, no mask – maybe only a patch over my right eye – to delude you as to who I am and what I’ve come for. I always love to collect, steal your lips, maybe your heart, to keep it forever, long after you may have forgotten why I came at all.

email to Al Sullivan

Ghost of Four Star March 28, 2026

  

Four Star isn’t Four star, even though the sign in the parking lot still bears that name, and inside as well as out, it looks the same, red and silver glowing on a street made heavy by the mausoleum-like performance space Catholics used to use to crucify Christ every year this time, a place still filled with the echoes of His passion, I brought my mother to see back in 1976, though these days I’m more haunted by the sacrifice in the Four Star the back of my hands still bleed from self-inflicted wounds, ghosts of the past always here to haunt us, even after all these years.

 

email to Al Sullivan

The drip July18, 2015

 

 

It drips onto her lips and I can’t resist, a Chinese torture that so pleases me, though as I look down into her upturned gaze, I wonder, does she like it as much as I do, and what more I could give her to please her as much as she pleases me, the drips of it onto her lips, and hips, and all her exposed parts, and then into the space unveiled when her legs part. I am a filling station that fills her up, not with petro, but with someone much more potent until my tank runs dry, and all that is left is the drip, drip, drip, and I wonder, does she like this the way I do, or am I just wasting time, torturing myself, looking to paint her with what I have do offer. Does she want it, too?

email to Al Sullivan

Which side is she really on November 23rd 2012

 

She switched sides, or so rumor claims, when I already know this cannot be trusted, she might sleep with the enemy but down deep she keeps Faith with the side she started with, using any role she needs to get what she needs or wants, love has nothing to do with it, not yet anyway, not this time, and I hear rumors without evidence, she will switch sides when I know damned well she won't, not yet, not until she gets a better offer, and the other side who invited her in, laid out their plans, can't see that deceptive Glow in her eyes, how she absorbs it all only to regurgitated later for the side she is really on, this plan or that, unveiled, undone, her job done, and she didn't even need to sleep with anyone to achieve it, not yet, not until she feels the need to, or desire to, each man wrapped around a different finger, like magic rings she can use at need, she choosing sides for her own convenience, when the whole time she's on no side but her own, this a new venture, different from what she needed to do when with us, relied on to dig up the dirt needed for her side -- if it is hers -- to win

Stranded

 July 17th 2015 

A small boat floats out in the middle of the wide river and i sympathize, almost lost in the haze this season brings, an Early morning mist that does nothing to lift the anguish we feel here, alone, rising to the tides and the rising heat we have no way to relieve, less self-satisfaction than the need for peace, alone on a river the leaves us stranded with no way to reach either shore, gripping my paddle with which I stroke slowly, making little progress yet to do something to erase this is better than doing nothing at all, wishing to be stranded with you, when this is not possible, perhaps never was, the mist, dreamlike in the nightmare, more like night sweats as I grip the oar and paddle my way, hoping to reach any shore at all

Can you hear me knocking? March 11, 2026

 

She hung the “do not disturb” sign on her social media page, or maybe eliminated the door entirely, making it clear what I should have known all along, there is no welcome mat, no fond remembrances, just the same old same old, time doing nothing to erase all the bad feelings that came before, the door will always be closed. Some things are eternal, even when we might wish otherwise, too much water under that bridge as they say, a though that strikes me as I sand on the banks of a river too far down stream for even a glimpse of where she sis, at this time and place, the world no longer what it was, if it ever really want what I thought in the first place.

 

email to Al Sullivan

Taste it

 July 16th 2015

I always want to taste it first before I go in, that subtle yet always present vinegar before I reach the sweet, this neat space front and back, each with its own delight which I need to moisten properly before I fully engage, as if I need to sample it before I fully commit, when I feel it all on the edge of my tongue, front and back and maybe then in the mouth, sweet lips top and bottom, something else when I open the back door, making it right for more vigorous exhortation, I need to taste it all sweet and sour, to know what exactly I'm getting into when I get there, like a milkman who delivers cream early in the morning, my footsteps rising up the steps of the back porch or unlocking the front door with my key, I need to taste it first before I come in 

must not do it aug 17, 2024

  

I must not do it

even if I ache too much

I must hold back

must tell myself to hold on

 and accept whatever gifts she gives

as insignificant as they might be like

 The echoes of whispers in the dark of night

these are my own wishes bouncing back at me

not any reflection of what she is or wants

 this all too mysterious an existence

of saying nothing

 I read clues from the shadows and tea leaves

 I must refrain; I must not do it

 must keep to my own road

even if there are times when

 I see her on her own and ache to cross over

 to greet her

 this I must not do

I know it would only get me lost in the woods

full of wolves and my own desires

email to Al Sullivan

Our furry friends

 March 2, 2026 

We always outlive them, our furry friends, who when Young we adore them for their looks or silly disposition,or  tender hearts, that over time, grows into something much, much more, family, friend, a loved one who's stayed firmly at our side through good and bad times, missed all the more because it was there for us often when no one else was, a companion who we could not live without but must somehow do so now, not too overstated affection, we know their place and yet wanted more time with them, this is the Fate we accept when we accept them into our lives, the vow we take to make certain they get all they need while they are in our care, especially love. we will always miss them, if not always as acutely as we do now, at this moment when they passing is so recent. we will always love them, now and forever

Tipping point (from Bear mountain mountain)Mountain poems) Oct. 17, 2024

 

I know the leaves have

Already changed

Where she resides,

The tipping point of

When gold and red turn brown

And yet as I drive north

On a road that hugs a river

I cling to their aspect of beauty,

Taking in the painted tips

Remembering the tender lips,

the tree crowns

bulging out, making me ache

to touch, as I cling

to memory as these remaining

leaves cling,

the colors seeping into me

along with the growing chill

as the world changes

and I know I will have to

live with the barren world

when they are gone,

until spring brings green again,

yet it is not the same,

this image of leaves,

the color of the sky

the darkness in her eyes,

the setting sun peeking

perpetually through,

always drawing me back

always making me

think far too much

about what I miss,

when I miss her

most

 

email to Al Sullivan