640 posts
  • kevinosullivan 7h

    Visiting Stranger

    The trees in the park wait in majesty

    Their leaves swim on the city breeze

    Chimes from church bells sing time

    A reminder of childhood memories

    These roots tether past to identity

    Decades ago when playing was work

    Now reminiscing as a visiting stranger

  • kevinosullivan 3d

    The end of the road.

    In my dreams I travel that road
    Out with bands on tour
    As I am unwanted by reality
    I imagine who I roll with
    On imaginary highways
    Visiting similar truck stops
    Hours of silent would be banter
    Letting my cracks show
    A dream once actually fulfilled
    Now just a clouded memory
    Regurgitated in my psyche
    To be applied to the voids
    Middle age and sober
    The end of the road.

  • kevinosullivan 5d

    Fewer Sunrises

    The world has shut me out
    But I have latched the door
    Shunned by my reputation
    I relight the burning match
    Manacles of lonesome shame
    Indented but not depressed
    Watching the shrinking clock
    Desperate for drunken banter
    Or the gospel of youthful hope
    Knowing that the best has passed
    With fewer sunrises on the future


  • kevinosullivan 4w

    Happy Easter Mother

    You've been gone a few years now.
    My tears are still fresh around Sunday.
    While finances were always sparse.
    We would all try to get you Lillies.
    Without a headstone or even gravesite.
    A son doesn't continue on this tradition.
    Just another reminder of temporal cycles.
    Here today in full bloom while living life.
    Gone to fertil dust in the soil and sea.
    Energy remains where memories weep.
    Happy Easter Mother

  • kevinosullivan 8w

    Vagrant Hope

    The corrosive napalm of religious retailers burns at the foundations of spirituality. By pilgrimage to poverty we wrestle away power from the powerful. Legions of demons force feed nuclear omnicide, polar warmth, militarism and consumerism at all costs. Anihilation orbiting at the precipice of looming extinction. Vagrant hope in the face of a preventable destruction.


  • kevinosullivan 9w

    The sick and the pale

    The first glimpse of spring hits Massachusetts. Its after Saint Paddy's day but before the actual first day of spring. Like many I emerge from severe vitamin D deficient winter. Crying for no reason, unable to leave the house. Like a bear emerging from a cave, I sun on the porch. Birds chirp and flutter as my elderly neighbors walk. Unlike me they are still unsure of the warmth. They dress in heavy coats and scarves, I sit bare chested in shorts. My bone density pain seems to fade away in the sweat. Full sun and sixty one degrees is like heaven descending. Why I toil unemployed in a New England hellscape is unknown. The people, like me are miserable and hard from years of winter. We are the sick and the pale, cloistered indoors.

  • kevinosullivan 10w


    Listeing to Darkbuster
    Day dreaming of Nashville
    Of meeting that spring sun
    Wondering when it all ends
    Unsure if its ever worth staying
    But afraid to get traveling
    Stuck in a middle age cycle
    In pasts fucked up reflection
    Lonesome, and in prison again

  • kevinosullivan 12w

    Electronic Cages

    I hate you more than ever. Your perverse.
    You lure them all in like mindless drones. We sit tethered to our metaverse phones.
    Meanwhile Putin's thugs invade Ukraine.
    A former Russian bastion reunited again.
    There's gas pipes heading west to flow.
    Natural resource profits shaping borders.
    Democracy is a lie and capitalism kills us.
    I joined faceborg today but will end it all!
    My life is a farce as are the majority there.
    I cannot pretend to care as it smoulders.
    Crypto scams, memes and NFT insanity.
    Inauthentic lives lived in electronic cages.
    Aggressive edge lords police their scene.
    I cannot pay to play or pretend to be cool.
    I am alone, unemployed, sober and dying.
    My days numbered in algorithmic loss.
    Posting but never networking to connect.
    We are consumed by consuming fodder.
    A death culture pervades the gospel truth.
    We are already buried, rotten as fertilizer.
    We experience but the reverb of shadows.
    Memories of phantasmagoric figments.

  • kevinosullivan 13w

    West of forty

    Heading west of forty years old in weeks
    Adult kids hate me but so goes that song
    A whirlwind of tides that break on shallow
    Unhealthy obsessions with past conflicts
    Unable to rise above angers petty height
    Her mom sips morphine in home hospice
    Another heartache that doesn't end quick
    Mourning loved ones before they are dead
    While knowing that we are lowly and frail
    From childhood to seen better living days
    West of forty as the pendulum sways

  • kevinosullivan 14w


    A northbound gaggle of geese overhead.
    New Bedford is warming in mid February.
    Frosted window glass where motors run.
    Off to the dock for coffee, check the boat.
    Inspect the lines, hoping all is finest kind.
    Surely the harbor seals will be swimming.
    The gulls will be shitting and squawking.
    They hunt for lone clams on the decks.
    Carrying them above they drop them hard.
    Birds using gravity to feed on quagogs.
    Another day, working in the Whaling City.

  • kevinosullivan 17w

    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 18w


    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 20w

    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 21w


    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 22w


    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 22w


    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 22w

    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 23w

    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 23w

    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 23w


    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.