483 posts
  • kevinosullivan 5h

    Ryders Grave

    Autumn Nor'easter wild this Wednesday
    The Whaling City foliage litter the streets
    Leaves on branches expose oak rot limbs
    Long internal decay awaiting a final fall
    Grey wet noontime illuminated moon like
    Like a lit Albert Pinkham Ryder painting
    Such grace in sublte temporal urban flora
    With dreams of years of layered oil paints
    A "roof and crust of bread" but no easels
    I plan for frigid painting in the cold garage
    With solitude and darkness to push the oil
    To convert my emotional moons into trust
    Our reclusive literary father revered again

  • kevinosullivan 1d

    The Light of Ryder

    Fears of water awaits the dieing crew
    Cold and dark in nocturnal lunar hue
    Ryder's light seeps as if his brushes knew
    His rusted umber and Prussian blue

    That beautiful tragic scene on calm night
    All who witnessed left fraught with fright
    A vessel consumed by spiteful moonlight
    The sea she takes to satisfy her appetite

    All souls lost fishing in peaceful scenery
    New Bedfords own fiction from memory
    Having imagined the end alone in imagery
    This description better ends life's misery

  • kevinosullivan 1w


    The setting sun gets temporarily brighter as it sets over the westernn sky. The leaves on the Quince leaves soak in the rays, knowing her fruit has already gone. Here in New Bedford, I think of Sicily from memory of movie scenes. I am transported to the wedding of Apollonia and Michael Corleone and her subsequent death.

    Winter robs us slowly by tricking us with autumn. Just as Fabrizio the traitor betrayed all honor as he orchestrated the killing of her and the unborn which grew inside her womb.

    Time is too fast for us who live in simple harmony while in love. Gloria Ciulla is my Apollonia. Her paternal family originated from Sicily. Tonight wd ate homemade pizza together as we wind down our daily routine.

    She is my wife and life partner and with her I can endure any weather and or seasons. She is the soil that grew our precious fruit and the joy that makes it all possible.

  • kevinosullivan 3w

    #christwontbecomingforchristmas #apprenticepoet #poetwannab #darktriadpoetry #literarytherapy #poetsofmirakee #whalingcitypoetry #nbma⚓ September Doves references the song by Lost Dog Street Band while August Burns Red is a band from Lancastsr, PA.

    Read More

    Christ won't be coming for christmas.

    Dollar store Halloween decorations.
    That will be in the trash by Thanksgiving.
    There's no gratitude or appreciation.
    Just continued exploitation and waste.
    Christ won't be coming for christmas.
    New Years, same patterns of destruction. Stuffed bears are ready for Valentines.
    And the plastic Paddy envies the green.
    Next May Day, let's celebrate the workers!
    Keep your empirical independence day.
    From Amish country, "August Burns Red" As "September Doves" usher in the fall.
    America is a capitalistic death culture.

  • kevinosullivan 4w


    Browning leaves flutter in the treetops.
    Like millions of moths clinging in song.
    Cumulus clouds graying white on blue.
    Autumns warmth beats down in time.
    The houseplants sun out on the porch.
    My dog and I watch the small planes land.
    Many personal relationships devalued.
    A crashed motorcycle and a bad knee.
    We are as mortal as leaves and clouds.
    Watching through finite lenses, waiting.

  • kevinosullivan 4w

    Old Man Haskell

    Morning water rises like smoke in the wind.
    Spraying the old stone wall, trellis and flower beds.
    The birds are awake, crows, Jay's and doves and sparrows.
    I have the whole place to myself as I sip my morning coffee.
    Old Mr. Haskell is gone but his green thumb is ever present.
    A green property of gardens of horticultural delights.
    An oasis but blocks from the inner city housing projects of poverty and despair.
    His labor bequeathed and entrusted in encapsulated splendor.
    On visiting I see that we all have deeded claim to nature.

  • kevinosullivan 4w


    A passive return on an anonymous surrender. Daily dividends sustained, solemnly without distraction. Routine doses of coffee, silence, pets, plants, love, music and rest. As seasons churn and beards turn gray, so is it that some desperately pray. On their knees or as humble public offerings. Inverted wisdom from troubled beginnings. A reflective Starling appears lost among a host of feeding sparrows. Sobering still, witness to it all. A black clad widow unable to remain. A granite slab soon to be carved with dates and name. Bruised is the ego and broken his youth. A circle constricted as all past lies soon become truth. March on in time, shedding all excess baggage en route. Arrival is inevitable and as inseparable as birth.

  • kevinosullivan 9w

    Ignorant Neighbor

    I spy my middle aged neighbor shirtless with dark tufts of back hair. He may look human but is all Neanderthal today. It is eighty-seven degrees out and his actions are silent behind the window pane. We cannot help but see them out back whenever we use the kitchen sink to do the dishes. On occasion his paranoid wife thinks we are voyeurs and has snapped a cell phone pic of me working shirtless on the dishes. My body hair is much less vulgar and less pronounced. As I am on the second floor; they cannot be positive that I am actually wearing pants. Perhaps that irritates their pea brains. Most often I am in boxer briefs but I like that they are troubled by the conundrum that I may actually be bare ass.

    He pulls and pulls the handheld gas blower pull start; but it never runs. He shifts from ground to stairs to ground; pulling with all that same confidence that his wife had about my attire. It's a deepignorance, really. Fostered by genetics and poor education and possibly island inbreeding. They have determined who and what we are all about without any investigating. Just as he struggles to subdue his inferior blower into laborious submission, but just fails. I figure a heart attack is on his horizon by the force and repetition that he yanks his chord. I guess I will call 911 if I see him prostate. He's definitely gonna need another blower and I may need a sweater as these air conditioner are really working. Some of us don't have the warming effects of thick back hair.


  • kevinosullivan 9w

    Capitalism is a drug.

    Capitalism is a drug!
    Sneakers, my gateway.
    More than I'll ever need.
    Purchased on Afterpay.
    Another new colorway.
    My collection of debt.
    Wearable fast fashion.
    Killing them softly.

  • kevinosullivan 9w

    A perfect bar

    A perfect bar consists of a weathered facade and signage with actual age opposed to artifical patina. A place where that one eccentric uncle might go for a few but a hodgepodge of all kinds; good and bad. A propped open door to hear the daytime singer/songwriter who works for tips performing on a low riser that's back faces the front window. The humm of neon and an old distressed tin ceiling with a long bar with swivel stools that are affixed to the floor. A place where dogs and degenerates are always welcome and the beer can be found cold and cheap. Found in draft form or cans and offer some form of cheap food item as an afterthought but not a whole menu. Old photos, a chalkboard and sporadic use of strings of year round christmas lights or rope lighting. Some may call it a dive bar but many of us have called it a home.

  • kevinosullivan 9w

    Cowboy Songsters

    My heroes have always been cowboy songsters. No, not them born again country pop stars in the tight jeans and polished smiles. My heroes are traveller's, hobos running from pain; crafting music from wandering miles. I too was a hobo, solo hopping on the fly; trying to outrun them demons. Just as the "Harlem River Blues" caught up with Justin as the reeper always will. I also have a temporary reprieve tethered to the salvation of being loved.

    My pack sits dormant and deflated, still smelling of military surplus and sweat. My boots and bedroll beneath the spare bed. Our apartment is simple but filled with life; pets, plants, art and memories. Sometimes we gotta leave to truly appreciate what we have, so I do. Less and less as the lure ebbs and flows as my emotions get tumbled by the frolicking surf.

    Today, I am as stationary as a houseplant who occasionally suns on the front porch. Listening to that frequency that only Benjamin Todd and Charley Crockett currently exalt. In it I hear rail cars brakes squealing on a turn or the air clicking to go when they sing but also know an agreement has been made.

    Just as Justin Townes Earle sang about trudging that road and writing about it all to save his tattered soul. Without a loving woman to anchor and guide one's sad life; we are like a runaway rigs. I carry it all in my heart, heavier with time but easier to breathe.

    Thankfully these few musicians can resonate and remind me of it all. You won't hear them on CMT or country radio as they are that which is authentic. An outlaw grit that exists in their marrow and only from poverty, addiction, crimes of life and loss. Such songs are not made from artificial facades of rodeo buckles, oil or ranching with Jesus. That ever present inner journey rolls through; past people, places and things. Sometimes all we can do is identify with that sentiment of such sad songs; knowing we are not alone.

  • kevinosullivan 10w

    A Midnight Arrival

    I am the only pale face riding this bus.
    Hot and sweaty as Charlie Crocket sings.
    Down in the trenches of luck and capitalism.
    I walked around Chinatown looking for a bus.
    Hoping for an earlier option homebound ride.
    A family from Senegal or Haiti holds a baby.
    Their plea and haggle with the driver lost out.
    Carseats are mandatory but so are tickets.
    There are many seats but capitalism must kill.
    Coolers with cooked food or bags of produce.
    My white benefit doesn't get rental car rides.
    The wifi and outlets work so North we all go.
    Rolling up on dirty stainless steel Alcoa rims.
    I sit over the rear axles as the aft tranny shifts.
    Close enough to smell the blue toilet aromas.
    Fat bags of Chinatown trinkets and knockoffs.
    Rolling on broken dreams and expectations.
    A body spray of cotton candy drifts back here.
    How I can't wait to see my baby girl tonight.
    Let the wolves of commerce eat us tomorrow.
    A cold shower will rinse the poetry off of me.
    My midnight arrival to be home as I belong.

  • kevinosullivan 10w

    Filthy Hot

    Here is your sick American Dream
    Filthy hot, polluted and unfulfilled
    In a sea of profitable carcinogens
    We are the destructive catalysts
    Buying at all costs, competing for death
    Race on to that precipice, I can no longer
    Adrift in a dream with no escape
    Here is your living; devoid of life


  • kevinosullivan 10w


    While I sit here on the bus leaving AC for NYC.
    Just another loser looking for another respite.
    Having carried ten thousand pounds of ice.
    And food or a small army of clam researchers.
    I lost six thousand to a clutch and a hurricane.
    There were gremlins in the hydraulics as well.
    Doing free gear work was not on my horizon.
    It's funny how the sea tries to meet the sun.
    Having retired and lost again to desperation.
    The groundhog day of games is in full swing.
    Taking leave in another port, alive once more.
    I ain't got no money but the empty chances.
    Failure is a lifestyle and poverty is my blanket.
    Secure and disguised as a clam fisherman.

  • kevinosullivan 10w

    Unfit for sea.

    In self imposed retirement from clamming.
    Two decades into fishing and aging faster stil.
    With a disorderly homelife while absent away.
    That decision was made with no looking back.
    Many resume rewrites and a few test hires.
    Only to answer that call to get guilt tripped in.
    A scientific research survey on a former boat.
    Their mostly green crew were unfit for sea.
    While my skills are still sharp, I too am unfit.
    I have long seen behind the wizards curtain.
    I was promised three easy weeks at nine thou.
    Instead we broke down and I leave battered.
    On a bus I write my woes, six thousand less.
    Disdainful from Atlantic City with more regret.
    Duped again by unfulfilled expectations again.
    As they rebuilt a transmission, I send out one.
    Like a bottled message afloat on a virtual sea.

  • kevinosullivan 13w


    Poles so volatile they disrupt all orbiting mass
    A style so caustic that his aura radiates heat
    Burning within earshot, few bystanders exist
    A pounding tight chest so troubled in turmoil
    As lava like emotion, erupts like steam vents
    A man seeking serenity, while lost in surrender
    Knowing funerals will happen gives no solace
    Since solitude is still alone regardless if living

  • kevinosullivan 13w

    We are all artists of a lost generation.

    Sewn deep in our bones, lives a distant tribal past. We are of the earth as much as we are on it. A confluence of influential snippets through our collective time. We are all artists, crafting and feeding; sewing and seeding, creating and needing. Just as that background music plays in a child's soundtrack.

    The rythym in language, the melody of suffering in survival, a hunger to hear and be heard. While that inner song fades of young childhood when we go gray ourselves; another already woven ancestral tapestry creates the future chapters. That which is oldest and purest will be newest and old again, only to be shelved and resurface infinitum. .

    We are painting the major chords and writing the drum beats as if isolated and insulated away. Our undercurrents of past fragments steady rising and falling with the breaking tides of time. We are connected and tethered to those same mortal struggles; knowing we will all die. Such pangs, yet we play on to create something new; to soothe the teething of another lost generation.

  • kevinosullivan 14w

    considering bath salts.

    You know how bad it gets. When your beard is almost as long as your hair, unintentionally. I am in the struggle, facing it. Most days I can muster enough life to go get a morning coffee at the gas station. Some late afternoons I even ride my motorcycle to the beach to sneak a swim after the parking guard leaves.

    I make unused graphic design projects all day as per usual, I am unemployed. I am a retired commercial fisherman who dreams of touring again with Punk Rock bands. Of course I don't play music or sing. Just a dreamer on the periphery of culture who once sold a few shirts. I once loved traveling as a vagabond.

    I seek community and friendship but others are less optimistic. This is a middle age funk, a shrink may diagnose it otherwise but fuck them. I got sober but then quit their program. My second child turns seventeen tomorrow but has already found solace and solution in pot.. Not me though, I abstain from it all. Better to grin and bare it then toke and share it.

    I am a rudderless man afloat in the world. I imagine vc guerrillas cycling down the hochimin at night while nah champa burns in the porches candlelight. No, I was not in any war and born after the last huey flew out of Saigon.

    The air conditioners whir as my family sleeps inside. One can't stop her compulsive buying and ongoing nagging about me working. While my teen is a teenager. We are all treading just barely above extinction but firmly tethered to poverty. Sometimes I just want to relax and surrender. I find myself feeling trapped, considering bath salts.

  • kevinosullivan 14w


    Today, as most days. I rose and showered after 8am then drive for quality gas station coffee at Cumbys. I get mine iced and extra sweet, sugar crunching at the bottom. I also swing by the Portugese bakery for fresh pops and a maladada. I spend my morning hours creating digital art stuff. I am a copy and paste artist who steals images then distorts them into gig flyers for bands. Most bands don't want or use them, I make them anyway. For me, really.. I create stuff thats form didn't exist to help me exist.

    I rode my motorcycle to buy pot for my teenager, today. I am completely sober and long believed weed helps some people. Not me of course, of about 5 times I hated it everytime and only surrendered after drunken peer pressure. A few hours of back farm roads twisting from New Bedford to Taunton and back had my arse sore.

    A short beach day of a few late afternoon hours after the parking girl leaves the West Island Beach. I park on the concrete pad they installed for the bathroom trailer that gets pulled out before I get there. I keep a folding chair chained to a guardrail as I commute to the beach on two wheels. After a few roadside hotdogs, it's back home.

    I fart around with more graphic design using only free software. St nightfall, my eyes watch bikes race in france from earlier in the day. A bit of Texas holdem gets played on my phone but I am fast and loose and go broke quick. My life is simple and cyclical. I hate work so I don't.

    Unemployment gets me through patches then poverty sets in deeper until I surrender to fishing. Man do I hate making a living from the sea. I am getting older and more nihilistic, suicidal even; down to my marrow. I have few friends, the ones who exist are just as miserable and fucked as me in this great charade. This cycle has a rythym of insanity that must occur. I am not alone here, and they expect morning coffee, funding and bickering from me. So it's off to bed. Goodnight you fucked up thing called life.

  • kevinosullivan 15w


    I sniff hundreds and smell the cocaine and stripper residues left on my past.