4 posts
  • kevinosullivan 26w


    Simplicity evades as the grind culture pervades.
    Serenity escapes as the hustle mob reshapes.
    Intentional poverty holds the keys from property.
    Spiritual practice dismantles the stinging cactus.
    Grinded downtrodden towards soft paths untrodden.
    Joyous hopes come true from natures tropes.
    Walden dwells internally opposite daily hells.
    A shanty shack rewilding stakes up the ante.

  • kevinosullivan 241w

    Literacy Evades

    Dark bedroom, my hallowed fortified ground.
    Unemployed and anxious, awaiting coming miracle or disaster. Birds squeaking outside that could be crows also being evicted. Our food stamps kicked in so we are hungry no more. A can of double shot espresso from that green bitch with a star. Inactive in labor but overactive with mind. My crude literary attemps hurl out this small jittery life line. My first world poverty, surely an American splendour. My confidence evaporated as I get berated again. Working hardest of all, transferring turmoil to writing. My only resistance is to sit flat on my ass. Inside, saying fuck you landlord and your capitalist class. I am a poet! You are ignorant and crass!..

  • kevinosullivan 244w

    Long day

    Today up at 7:18 am, showered then biked to a morning AA meeting.
    Filled with anxiety as I recalled the proverbial writings on my then childhood wall.
    There are no secrets in this world, just things we pretend not to know.
    I knew this then and fully except it now.
    My daughter is up and dressed to be safe at home school as I left early. We watch youtube videos about communal living, punk houses and I feel better.
    In the uniform of the defeated after another cold shower; stolen hospital pants from the VA. Wearing property of the federal government while disregarding the printed warnings feels right. Being an anarchist is hard at times with the rest of the world wondering why I do what I do. Three months behind in rent as Gloria and Sweetpea both lightly snore, our parakeets chirping. Its 10:32am and I am trying to survive panic and anxiety as impending doom cloud my chest. Unassisted by medication and too conflicted to meditate. I have long been unemploable and somehow miracles happen to find the rent money. My inaction breeds disaster, prompting prayer and miracles. Small victories as the emotional pendulum swings. Better late than never, I say; really thinking never again is best still. I oppose capitalism completely; the currency, debt, credit score, income, banking, employment, rent and bills. I hate these greedy exploitive sheep further exploiting fellow sheep like wolves. I am most likely disabled if ever a doctor did diagnosed me; id rather be free and poor than anything else. Freedom escaping me temporarily as my hostile landlord occupies space in my psyche. After eleven years of late rent paying, I feel that a level of consistency should evoke trust. No such luck. Will relocation solve these basic shelter problems while avoiding work amd income? Trying not to drift into delusional utopia, I consider communal living with others. Having a teen daughter and disabled wife who craves privacy and security brings reality to my dilemma. To help my elderly neighbor sell junk on EBAY for a pittance commission is too much today. I may not be at the end of my rope but I am slowly climbing the ladder and tying the knot. Writing is my litmus test, finding questions in an unanswered world. A lump in my throat as the phone hits the sheets, my eyelids grow heavy from this weight of the world.


  • kevinosullivan 275w

    What befell thee

    Snow again, overnight
    Fallen unique flakes
    Covering it all just right

    Warm are we, heated free
    Thoughts of others, we dont see
    What befell thee, What befell thee

    They encamped, or sidewalk dwellers
    Blessed are the squatters, in urban cellars
    Home, where the heart is; they have none

    Heartless are they, those so forsaken
    The hungry and hopeless, covered in cold
    Forgotten parents, siblings our neighbors of old

    While Sunday jazz echoes my cozy abode
    They neither tramp or travel or ever dream
    Royalty are we hobos who take to the road

    When we slow to retire inside we mostly go
    Since travelling and survival are the choice
    There sits the humbum lost among luster