TJ Sullivan LA: April 2009

Wednesday, April 29, 2009

Right On, John Rabe!

I can't really explain why I got such a kick out of this today. Perhaps it's simply the damned-the-rules, question-authority, I'm-gonna-do-it-anyway spirit of the thing. Whatever it is ... Right on! John Rabe!

(via LA Observed)

— TJ Sullivan in LA

Saturday, April 11, 2009

April is Poetry Month: No. 2

So ... I figured I'd drag out a few old poems, and publish a new one or two.

Cancellation
by T.J. Sullivan © 1998

The newspaper carrier
Kept throwing my paper farther and farther
Away from the porch

It used to be that he’d hit the door with it at 4 a.m.
The sound of tightly wound newsprint hitting wood
Woke me up most mornings
But it had been months since
I heard the thud

For a few weeks he was throwing it on the steps
Leading up to my door
Then the porch below it
His favorite spot in December was the walk
In front of the house
Two months later the paper was on the curb
Then it was in the street

I stumbled out that morning
Half asleep and hung over
In boxers and a white cotton Fruit-of-the-Loom t-shirt
Then he rammed me from behind with
That station wagon with the bad muffler

There were photographs of my under-dressed
Corpse
In the newspaper the next day
Complete coverage
With a map showing exactly where my house is located
And a dotted line where his car skittered over me and away
They think he headed for Calgary

My neighbors said I was quiet
Except for that Cuban salsa music
And those mornings when I would just scream
'(Expletive deleted)'
But other than that, they didn’t notice me much

I’ve been dead for about five months now
And my porch sits yellowed and full of newspapers
The new carrier on my route was told
'Make sure you hit the porch
There have been some complaints
And we don’t like
Cancellations.'

— TJ Sullivan in LA

April is Poetry Month: No. 1

So ... I figured I'd drag out a few old poems, and publish a new one or two.

Summer In Los Angeles
by T.J. Sullivan © 2009

I only miss
The damp cool
Of basement cellars
In desert heat,

When the sun feels
Magnified
Like an obsession
For driveway bugs,

That's when I miss
The dark nooks
Of granite pantries
And cement floors,

I lay in bed
Kick the sheets
Watch gray dust bunnies
Cling to the fan,

Beads of sweat soak
My pillow
New ideas melt
Into brown stains,

In the kitchen
I drop ice
In tiffany glasses
To watch it crack,

Cubes hiss and die
Shrink and fade
And then I swallow
A brief escape,

I pour myself
Back to bed
Slip between warm sheets
And dream of mold.