#nbma

648 posts
  • kevinosullivan 1w

    Returning Home

    Slippery deck plates and broken bilge pumps.
    Rusted valve handles and sticky hatch dogs.
    Frozen bearings and rusted fresh water tanks.
    Electrical smoke as the big diesel starters
    crank.
    Cigarette histories varnish the woodwork in tar.
    A rebellious bunch, five times likely to die working.
    His bags stacked as he waits for his scheduled bus.
    Disappointment and unpaid again, returning home.
    ©kevinosullivan

  • kevinosullivan 1w

    Vision Board

    My future seems bleak, bloated and poor.
    I quit yet another shitty job the other day.
    Bills paid to keep the credit wolves at bay.
    My headache is proof of my living misery.
    I rarely write as I rarely get stimulated so.
    Putin is invading Ukraine while we warm.
    Racing natural gas pipelines to Europe so.
    I have a surplus of frozen water over here.
    While the American southwest burns dry.
    We cannot pipe water west as it's too late.
    We are in peril, racing to the precipice.
    ©kevinosullivan

  • kevinosullivan 3w

    Unread

    Strangled by sadness without excitement
    Suffocated by boredoms rhythmic waves
    The banality of daily realism choking me
    Walking to work, punching a time clock
    Seeking meaning along sidewalk cracks
    Rummaging for literary scraps among ash
    Questions lurking where answers wander
    Imposing agita on the innocent and naive
    My inner turmoil evaporating like distillate
    An essence of toxic stardust adrift in time
    Breathing creativity inside literary arteries
    While mixing with the chafed or abrasive
    Too much aggregate and everything dies
    Too little and the heartbeats won't shine
    A life above the veil where utopia grows
    Heaven amalgamated away from greed
    Plain speak hidden in convoluted poetry
    Unread or interpreted, lost in the internet


    ©kevinosullivan

  • kevinosullivan 5w

    Land bridge

    The aubergine migrants cold against the white Scottish winter. On lowland island surrounded by sea, seeking asylum; yearning to be free. If only the pangean supercontinent still existed then those fleeing war could simply walk to Times Square. There they could coagulate into the twisted bosom of capitalism. Where the greedy ghost of Adam Smith is worshiped at every chance. Profit justifies the most deplorable and despicable behavior. Forget all past suffering while all waking hours are engaged in surviving a laborious rat race. A maze of competitive madness without tradition or honor. Human conflict and desperation fuel all passage, most at perilous costs. The toll paid is always more than expected and rarely without regret.
    ©kevinosullivan

  • kevinosullivan 6w

    Despair

    Fractured asylum found in nihilism.
    Seeking safe ground, wiithout pain..
    Like an artificial being, alien to all.
    They live or die, us loving and crying.
    Just lumps in our lonely mortal throats.
    We pilgrims sail solo on tear filled views.
    Deceptively exposing tidal deficiencies.
    That cannot be explained or remedied.
    We chart courses that batter rocky crags.
    Barely buoyant, hardly heading onward.
    Still we sail on in delusions of despair.
    ©kevinosullivan

  • kevinosullivan 7w

    Gale

    The pie plates and cans flutter from simple kitchen strings. A gale is blowing sixty plus miles an hour outside. Fitting as it's sixty plus degrees and almost Christmas. An old world deterent of animals in the backyard vegetable garden. It sounds as if the spirits are dancing tonight. The blue tarp which blankets the wintering fruit tree sings like a sail. Our New Bedford home where the docks are surely full. The salty fishing crews must be out on a tear. That mischief is in the windy warm air. Blown in from another place, smelted from danger and dreams. This gale is raw astrological energy that must disperse itself. Emotive wind, ripping like fractals in the routes of time. The banging racket and howling whistles, announcing to the future that the past is near.
    ©kevinosullivan

  • kevinosullivan 7w

    Quack

    Shoot down the immoral fowl who flutters
    Deceiving ducks who lie, flail and falter
    The bloody feathers in down filled pillows
    Make death of they soaring from ponds Bloodlust nears the suns setting horizon
    Quack, quack, quack sings the quackpots
    Till buckshot blasts musket lead in flesh
    ©kevinosullivan

  • kevinosullivan 7w

    Don't move the goal

    I remember youth sports where I competed as a boy. I played football, hockey and basketball. We had adult coaches who tried to instill discipline, respect and morality into us rough city kids. We didn't become saintly or completely honest or morally just but we got better. This betterment has ebbed and flowed in and out of that young player who know lives inside me. Now I am middle aged and try to be fair and rarely compete. When I do, it amazes me how often fellow adults simply move the goal. While theoretically not nefarious it is unfair all the same. A contest between peers should be just that, not influenced by outside meddling after the fact.

    Several times in my adult life, people have rewrote the fine print after soliciting submissions. Poetry and graphic design projects specifically. As someone who know despises competition as well as capitalism; I rarely compete. Some times I want to contribute in an effort to creatively add something special to the sauce. For all of you adults calling for submissions of art, design or literature; try to imagine your childhood as if you were coached by adults with honor and integrity. Try to imagine how a subtle and trivial date extension and failure to crown a winner puts the whole contest in question. Don't try to demand inclusion and or judge based on bias instead judge only on the quality of the work available. Your tweaks and adjustments after the terms have been published is simply wrong. It is thievery, bigotry and deception.

    Keep the field level for players who show up and suit up to participate. Run your contests and choose the winner. Don't solicit entries and then squander the intellectual effort of others and the integrity of yourself or your organization.
    ©kevinosullivan

  • kevinosullivan 7w

    Not even 9am

    I got to the city bus stop this morning.
    This was only my second time ever riding.
    I'm heading to the hospital for a scan.
    Three other riders with me going south.
    A few more riders got on with us all.
    Then I could smell the booze on him.
    He was in mid sixties; all bundled up
    Sweatpants, sneakers and backpack he wore.
    He seemed as normal as the other riders.
    As we got downtown, he looks for a drink.
    We wait a few minutes at the terminal.
    There a one armed man smokes with a coffee.
    A bus ride in New Bedford, not even 9am.

  • kevinosullivan 7w

    Night Stalkers

    Sleeping cats lie still in dormant slumber.
    Such royal pets who rest as an artform.
    Perfoming as statuesque cat sculptures.
    Mapping threats, knowing all movement.
    We fumble lost in their resting territories.
    Yet barely a tail flicker or any eye opening.
    Stealthily they hunt and play as we sleep.
    Such night stalkers who we love so much.
    ©kevinosullivan

  • kevinosullivan 7w

    Shields

    A mother pops pimples as her curly haired toddler plays on the passenger seat. It's past nine pm, as we wait in our cars. Me for my bad knee after a motorcycle accident. I wonder whom they wait for as he plays and she fusses with freeing pus from her skin. The boys curly hair reminds me of my seventeen year old who had similar hair and loved their dad once.

    I arrive inside and appreciate the nightime skelton crew. The young girl who checks me in has beautiful eyes above her mask. Maybe a few years out of college, late twenties. She hands me a non metallic mask to swap out my fabric mask. It has a faint scent of mold or mildew as I put it on. I answer her few questions and wait alone in an empty waiting room out front of an empty medical office. It is calming and I do not miss whomever works the day shift or care to interact with fellow patients.

    I am met with a flirty MRI tech. She is funny and close to my age but happy throughout life. She is not as young or pretty as the other girl but a fitting match. She does like me. I know this as few people actually do anymore. It is impossible not to recognize her laughing and our banter in between routine medical questions. She showed her Trump card somewhat hidden when she said "Your Brave" after I answered if I had been vaccinated.

    She assesses me, my personality and my nationality and sense of humor for compatability. We are a match despite me being clinically depressed, unemployed, celibate, practically married with kids, pets and plants. My misery in respite as I reminded of life. We laugh and joke, periodically she flirts and perhaps is violating policies. The attention is not unwelcome, too often I am ignored or openly challenged in emotional conflict.

    I undress and sit, waiting to be called as I put on scrubs. Having mentioned how I hope to keep them after out loud. I am reminded of my brother who is a VA nurse and the stolen pajamas I wear at night. I am nervous as I sit in my changing room with my door open. Pop country plays and there is a speaker that has a knob on the wall to adjust the volume. I play with it, then remember how much I hate modern country pop music.

    I can smell my failing deodorant that leaves my natural musk in the air as I lock my things in the closet. Without aluminum I think and wonder how many people forget their four digit codes. She mentions her eight year old dog and how he should be able to come to work with her. We joke about this and that, laughing loudly like old friends. Then I see the toddlers dad who looks like a good match for the waiting mom. I wonder what his injury is and if it prevents him from working.

    I am summoned by the head guy who administers the imaging. By my side she preps me for my scan. She brushes up against me as they ask what type of music I like and place a ball in my hand for emergencies. I press it to test as she giggles away, saying not now. I reply that I had to test it to know it works. With ear plugs and headphones on I hear the music of Sinead O'Connor yet I say it is Alanis Morisette. He says that they do not have a punk rock station as she offers to find something on Pandora. She asks if I'd rather her stay to sing to me. I nervously say no but we both know I meant maybe.

    My time in the machine is done and I remove my ear plugs. She said we had our first fight as I made fun of the music that played in my ear. She knew every band and said she has a knack for knowing music. The Cranberries, Dido, Incubus she states. The poor thing has no idea that my entire life has been warfare, where I lure in civilians like her to become future combatants. With no battle winners, I just seek out the skirmishes where all involve will loose. I admitted my lack of knowledge and weakness for such trivia. I assure her that I was good at Jeopardy style trivia but terrible at music. She said If I wanted to keep my hospital scrubs that she wouldn't tell. I thank her but get dressed and leave without fanfair, no goodbyes or employees visible as I walk outside.
    ©kevinosullivan

  • kevinosullivan 7w

    Cultural reparations (Marfa, TX)

    Never will I be invited to a residency at the Lannan Foundation. Never will I descend on Marfa, Texas for Chinati Weekend. I am uneducated and unemployable as any right poet should be. I am surely cynical, damaged and creative. Since I write for free and publish online; can I even be called a poet. No MFA here or Guggenheim fellowship, no list of printed publications or faculty jobs. I am not a member of the capitalist class so my conscience is clean yet my pedigree is nonexistent.

    I am a lurker and a looker; watching, digesting and regurgitating commentary. Without audience, this cannot be art and I will never truly be an actual poet. As a distant onlooker of culture, I see who gets attention and who pays the bill. Your typical royal classes and their jesters dancing for amusement and advancement.

    Those seeking grace from past sin fund the patronage and control appointments with privilege. These, I call cultural reparations, an effort to cleanse away liability. With equality in the air, women, indigenous and people of color are what's in vogue and on display. These groups, like me are outsiders to equity but unlike me; they can and may actually assimilate as they are corruptible. The once oppressed will rise to power only to become what they despised. Trotsky advocated for constant revolution for just such reasons. I seek only to sweep the grounds and exist as a volunteer visitor in the desert. A janitor who can only pay for his literary reparations in the form of menial labor.

    Why else would they tolerate such an outsider like me, if not to fill the scenery and take out the trash. These sociological exhibitions are really what's worth seeing. Where winners amass and discuss their successes of exaggerated losses. Such high brow art as if cast nearby in brutal concrete. Such a similar approach solicits serious female, elderly and mostly ethnic women who are selected to create. An occasional male may be included providing his pedigree fits. I may be corrupted by jealousy of the sun and solitude while harboring these unhealthy resentments. These realities will fuel my literary pursuits.

    Unlike these poet elites that get invited to Marfa, I lack the politics or ancestral struggle, no slavery or conflict; surely enough grit just not enough polish. I am spiritually lured there for I know that such annointed ink is a weighted medium that cures with permanence. Such academics this lot, who have not slept rough outside or hopped freights south. They are trespassers really; those who create narrative without ever actually living the story. Perhaps my struggles are equal and some day I too will have a period of decompression.

    Perhaps the desert solace can heal my traumas and I too can write. Writing has always been a selfish pursuit for me, seeking betterment from my own tortured psyche. A literary therapy. A tincture of sobering compounds where I can express pain from past, present and future.
    ©kevinosullivan

  • kevinosullivan 7w

    Coins

    Deep in the pocket where denim lint lives.
    A coppery land of Lincoln lives too.
    From this vault I can usually buy a cup of coffee.
    Without any savings or income, I have little to account for.
    Coins fund my daily struggle and survival.
    ©kevinosullivan

  • kevinosullivan 8w

    Rosebud in winter.

    A newborn rosebud in winter.
    Full of color and temporal life.
    Such sadness and morbid passion.
    Courted by the strength of the sun.
    From frozen ground devoid of hope.
    ©kevinosullivan

  • kevinosullivan 8w

    Severed

    I sit dismantling a relationship in my mind.
    I seek mutual order, healing and some peace.
    How can we have gotten this far from the mark?
    All of this stuff, the physical detrius of a home.
    Our teens childhood innocence is being lost.
    Their toys are still stored in the bedroom closet.
    I can throw out my stuff that anchors me in pain.
    The shame is that as a unit we survive better.
    Alone we will all perish from the heartache.
    Solemn slaughter of mental illness on a family.
    Just a bad day that erupted out of normalcy.
    Before truly waking, the bond had been severed.
    ©kevinosullivan

  • kevinosullivan 8w

    A Shrouded Cloak

    The traumas of loving lives on past death.
    Sure we all know that death is inevitable but we all trudge on.
    We live scattered, hidden and distracted lives; consumed by the trivial and mundane.
    We try to pretend, we try to forget, we try to heal.
    Few truly know us but our mothers and lovers.
    It is sometimes hard to love us, sometimes painful and jagged to watch us falling.
    So the traumas live on in the pall of a loved ones death.
    A shrouded cloak woven through our collective fabric of time, connecting us all.
    My mourning tears shed at the news of a strangers death; for I have known love and death.
    A mother's young adult daughter and only child, gone in her prime.
    A veil of darkness will obstruct that loving light once more, and on again.
    This is the way, and we will all face the harrowing path, bearing the burdens of loving, trauma and loss.
    ©kevinosullivan

  • kevinosullivan 8w

    Tarsands

    The capitalists piping gets welded in place.
    Our bipedal survival for our sacred human race.
    Warmer it gets to becoming a hellscape like venus.
    Like the Buffalo, Cod fish and ice sheets between us.
    Gone is the atmosphere of ozone protectorate.
    We are the desperate, ignorant and inconsiderate.
    ©kevinosullivan

  • kevinosullivan 8w

    He forages

    His interests spread out akimbo
    Like the missing web of a harvestman
    A ground scavenger lacking venom
    With a noxious scent he repels others
    Feeding on opportunity he forages
    Seeking purpose beyond mere survival
    Yet alone he roams feeding on discards
    ©kevinosullivan

  • kevinosullivan 8w

    Sad and grim

    Dreaming of the American southwest
    Where there is sand, sun and dust
    Low desert romantic daydreams
    Wintering here bulges the seams.
    Such blue melancholic daiy conditions
    Sinful souls tortured to living perdition
    Chest pressures painful in agony
    Banal interactions seeking humanity
    Lost, abandoned as others evade him
    Few see anything except sad and grim
    ©kevinosullivan

  • kevinosullivan 8w

    Quirky

    Eccentric the schoolboy
    Gifted and such
    Emotionally reckless
    Where bridges get burnt
    Creatively evolving
    Through stages of growth
    Yet foibles of character
    Where insolence rests
    Freeform as a thinker
    Apart from societal grace
    His thoughts of the darkness
    Dwell in obscure reverie
    Far reaching and odd
    A quirky menagerie
    ©kevinosullivan