Gary Sullivan
Gary Sullivan lives in Brooklyn. His first book, _Dead Man_, was published
by Meow Press http://wings.buffalo.edu/epc/presses/meow/; his second, _The
Art of Poetry_, will be published by Detour Press
http://www.columbia.edu/cu/history/detour/detour later this year. Earlier
letter-poems to Nada appear at:
http://www.geocities.com/~theeastvillage/v5.htm. He can be reached at
gps12@columbia.edu or The_New_Life@hotmail.com
3/2/99
Dear Nada,
Harvey Pekar urges R. Crumb to cash in goads You like money
don'tcha? tho Crumb's oblivious
eyes fastened on sneering Amazon Jewess in black boots
I can never have her he trembles we like to imagine
anything fulfills us if it doesn't really save
the odd genius smitten by fractals complex systems
would Dante have written the Comedy if he'd loved Beatrice
the object of desire isn't muse unless elusive all's
courtship we talk ourselves into our out of
pride keeps us from throwing ourselves at the feet
of every beautiful stranger O
you're more lovely than Cher I thought
when I first saw you that you sneered at me may be
why I've written you so passionately
why I drink alone tonight instead of bar hopping w/Ange
Brenda or Laurie tho all the stars are like
little fish Courtney Love says people think she drove Kurt
to suicide because the sky was all violets she's
the one with no soul O kill me pills no one cares
mythology what the dead or elusive lover reduces us to
that or money I have nothing Chris loans me for cigarettes
I wanna be with you tear your dress off during ordinary conversation
I hope I don't have to go through this ever again
it's impossible to make clear in a poem in charcoal ochre
sinew atom blue as the screen these words pop up on
pieces of web glisten to inner spider overpilled evolve
in push of light blurred to gold ache as I ache someday you will
Chris pokes his head thru to tell me Jesse The Body Ventura
apologized for saying drunken Irish responsible for St. Paul's
confusing streets dumb fucking Viking if I were to lay out
the city now it'd be in the shape of you I guess
that would be confusing maybe we're all drunk maybe we're
all Irish I mail all my drunken blueprints
of uninhabitable cities to you & we both wake up alone
maybe we're just gutless
undressed look the same talk the same fuck like anybody else
everybody fucks it's not remarkable why mention it
it's not even discussible groupable into words I really want
what you taste and smell and think as you read this
all for nothing human mental hope
delicate viands the cure of this going & coming world's woe
mind tricked into believing or dead forever & ever & ever
am I what am I going on peacefully at your feet
caring not for ideas yellow palm leaves waving
no trees nothing to break it the surf dull & lifeless
but continuing I don't want to hurt you
guilty only of trying to think of the next sentence
it could be sweet as your forehead as accidental
or whole as certain light shimmers
against oceanic tides rare Egyptian emerald-agate tiara
a prayer in the form of a poem
copulating in the empty library of my brain other than I
whatever that is maybe inability
learned from other men merely in poverty's pall boulevards
their hard-earned monies non-crucial & w/out hope
formality merely a way of life
what if Crumb leapt at her I improvise any dream your own
a walk on broken bits as broken as tonight how can it
feel this wrong broken the fast of hands
I'd sell out in a minute but nobody's buying the milk
of the sun I'm scared I guess that's distance
or will become in mingled frame of mind shivered along lines
of sight each time my heart is broken
& tired of anyone's gun barrel cracker Big Town laughing
love, love, love to ignore me like a record player
like a French word like the bridge all dreary music
reaches for why in your white pants do you play such dreary music
I'm in love with you & nothing else has happened
did you really want this world if it really is what it is
& that's all it is & belongs to everybody
how wily silence abiding perfectly no question of being
alive tree trunks sunk in the grass there is
another world with people you are not arguing with in life
fallen upon myself my starving Irish ancestry
not private final one I forget every emotion I ever had
it could be sweet not meticulous or habit
"I wish I were a bird & not held down to anything in particular"
Love,
Gary
Gary Sullivan
Gary Sullivan lives in Brooklyn. His first book, _Dead Man_, was published
by Meow Press http://wings.buffalo.edu/epc/presses/meow/; his second, _The
Art of Poetry_, will be published by Detour Press
http://www.columbia.edu/cu/history/detour/detour later this year. Earlier
letter-poems to Nada appear at:
http://www.geocities.com/~theeastvillage/v5.htm. He can be reached at
gps12@columbia.edu or The_New_Life@hotmail.com
2/18/99
Dear Nada,
A: "I can't, don't you see? I still owe him money for the
airport."
B: "But you owe a *lot* of people ... a *lot* money ...
for--for a *lot* of airports ..."
--The Firesign Theater
A walk to Russ Pizza for a slice takes about five minutes
at the corner of Messerole & Manhattan three
teenage girls in dark down jackets huddle together one
wipes her nose "But I only went out with him
because he has a card ... so I could get my cigarettes"
The rest of this depressing conversation is lost to me
as an ambulance rounds the corner lights flashing siren, etc.
I focus my attention on a plane as it appears over the horizon
of buildings on my right its silhouette against
an almost completely indigo sky I like the way this airplane looks
like a secret agent almost & I almost forget the nasty things
everyone's ever said to me people sometimes imagine they're writing
everyone else's biography I don't understand this plane either
there's something graceful or elegant about its apparent stillness
Someone's left the Daily News on a table I order read the headline
MY LIFE IN HELL Supermodel Kate Moss Talks about Drugs & Alcohol
the man behind the counter sings along with the radio
"I believe I can fly I believe I can almost touch the sky" he's very
earnest I try to imagine a life in Hell with Kate Moss
what would we say to each other? what do we have in common?
drugs booze both notably underweight "Hi do you want a hit off this?"
The counter's sticky to the touch I fish $1.50 from my pocket
I guess I'll wind up in Hell someday too I won't be seated
next to Kate Moss probably Russ Pizza will be there there'll be
photographs of Kate on the walls signed "I love your pizza
I'm sorry I used your restroom to stick my finger down my throat"
only pictures of rich or famous people will grace the walls
just like everywhere else just like Greenpoint Brooklyn
The teens have moved on from Messerole & Manhattan the slice
warms the palm of my hand soon it'll warm my belly
I wonder if you would still love me if I had a belly well would you
bother to make me speechless really I'm practically dead
without you tonight not even Laurie's Polish landlady
sticks her head out to acknowledge me climbing the stairs
if I lived here I'd owe her a lot of money but I don't what a relief
I have teeth and a tongue and use them to eat the pizza
it goes without saying they won't be used for anything else tonight
tho I'll chew on my memories of you even as they're fading
will you still love me when you arrive in New York if there's no heaven
we can live out our days out by the sea or near Coney Island
I imagine we'll live wild & tangled like seaweed
you smell like the ocean and used to come quickly I do remember
I have enough to eat I live in Brooklyn these are small miracles
I'm glad I bothered to think of them even as I think of you
are you the same person you were yesterday I like to think so
tho it wouldn't be so bad if you weren't like the airplane I hear
out Laurie's window is not the same one I saw earlier nothing's perfect
if it were there'd be no room for improvement o quickly
imagine me no longer writing this to you but home
Seen from one corner of the room folding this page up standing
& walking it over to you "Here" where you sit reading something
you take your eyes from to see me standing above you
handing you this letter folded neatly but in haste wanting you
to take this from my hands how warm they are now I've eaten
will you think of lovers as you read this will you read me
as a lover reads noon & wind and not as someone wanting something
Brooklyn fades Laurie's apartment disintegrates everyone's had
a bad time none of this is anything but words
from the biting-mouth part of your lover his nakedness
seen thru like a jungle or tangle of seaweed he being only the I
it's darkest against there is nothing to say about him
but what's been said here no account without meaning
like this world your eyes glow in amber is open all night lost by me
Love,
Gary
Gary Sullivan
Gary Sullivan