3 posts
  • kevinosullivan 30w


    A mariner lacks romance of whaling days
    For he who knows the sea, knows fishing
    Of whales, oil and seafood for income
    If not for Melville sharing a sacred secret
    Boring classes would not know adventure
    Hard men must battle nature for survival
    Lacking subdued skills of civilized gents
    We meet Providence and pray on in labor
    Toiling days in rich colors, hue and tones
    As the stories share by pen, brush or song
    They dilute as linseed medium to oil paint
    For nothing can describe the Awe of God
    We try and fail while we seek perfections
    Returning to nature, gambling for money
    Then inadequatelly sharing stories of Him

  • kevinosullivan 48w

    IBM (impossible butt-wiping machine)

    I sold my vintage olive green IBM Seletric ii with auto-correct feature to get money to buy toilet paper. I never wrote anything worthwhile on any of those engineering masterpieces. This parricular machine was supposed to validate my identity as an actual writer. Am I a writer? The verdict is still out but damn if this prop didn't get my creative juices flowing while completing the aestetic.

    I always was gifted at being unemployable. A radical who could woo hiring managers with fudged resumes and fictional cover letters. I still am fairly good at this process but most always, I send emails. Naive, optimistic and temporarily passionate before I get to see behind the curtain. I am an both autotelic and autodidactic, a self driven researcher and accurate assesor of value.

    I have been such an intellectual explorer who tinkers and toys with stuff. This curiosity helped lead me to repairing such old electric typewriters. It was fun hunting, acquiring and resurrecting increasingly hip and desirable vintage machines. I would collect these basket cases for free or cheap on craigslist, thrift stores or flea markets. I would then totally degunk with cans of PB Blaster while working at our second hand Ikea kitchen table.

    With poweful penetrating catalyst fumed dreams of being an iconoclast writer like Hunter S. Thompson or Hank Bukowski; I would clean and disect. This was only further fueled by my long distance friendship with modern poet/writer/blogger Jim Trainer. We share much in common, from influences to dreams Jim has his own fire engine red IBM Selectric and decades worth of blogs and several self published books of poetry put out on his #yellowlarkpress. Jim is a middle aged East Coast guy, now a Texan regugee and working class punk like me. He calls a garage apartment in Austin home and comes by way of Philly; also without the destructive crutches of booze or drugs.

    I am occasionally romantic and nostalgic but also routinely pragmatic. I am reminded of how towing a large wagon through life requires ongoing personal sacrifice. I don't dispute my lack of commitment with writing analog but I did love that hum and pur of those keys clacking. As an itinerant yet mostly accountable dad and common law life partner, I must remember to provide for mine.

    Regardless if I was working on fishing boats, hopping freight trains or touring with Punk Rawk bands, toilet paper was and is always needed. My individual dreams cannot extinguish the realities of being a needed family man. Our wagon and I live in a tenement apartment in Melvilles, "Whaling City" of New Bedford and has many pets, plants, wife, child and a six-hundred a month child support obligation to boot. Farely often I can escape my collar, bridle and reins for adventure and to recharge my batteries.

    I cannot escape who I am, though. I am a recovering drunk who made a pledge to provide just as my family has allowed for my existence and my occasional furlough. So one day after years of getting, fixing, trading or selling several old steeds from my stable; only my olive green baby was left. I would imagine the provenance and journey that was traveled before her stop with me. She worked flawlessly and green has long been my favorite color, but at the end of the day; a decision had to be made. She got sold to a business owner who wanted to use it to save on toner and because of his mechanical appreciation of these beasts.

    I still write just as much as I wanted to but didn't on any of my Selectric's. I publish here on Mirakee or Miraquill or whatever this app is called now. Treasured literature always has greater value than the paper it's written on anyway and toilet paper is priceless. Don't believe me,? Try wiping with the paper from your favorite book, poem or broadside. It may be uncomfortable but possible where as using a vintage office appliance will just make you bleed.

    I myself bleed plenty, albeit while on my literary pursuit and as for the wagoneers; we have yet to go without toilet paper.


  • srmthepoet 167w

    The world's a ship on its passage out

    Herman Melville