january'88 . coffee . winter night

january, 88 and I am twenty two.
image of a dilated whirlpool of pupil
resting on a crying
blood dript penny, spider web
or uplifted pupil, a man walx
slow under sun in pyramid
of eyebrow
fingers on spoons
stirring coffee and on matches
flikt in ashtrays and a pen
scrawling to my left, to show
i am not dead buried beneath
my eyelids. in union w gesture
of hands, i pop my eye from
it's socket and place it on the

 Woodwards food floor
always stages a long line
up, colors of groceries from
descending escalator.
a woman grows old in
isle 3, i left her there when
i was younger and much
shorter, i bought an orange and
an apple and a japanese
pear fruit and broccoli.

all these poems by Mike Sullivan

Coffee, the laundry's drying.
Coffee at the coffee shop.
Coffee and a cigarette.
Greet the local punks and crazies,
little old ladies and street corner smokers.
Thank today's waitress
and check the horoscope.

Cigarette cherry, then
snow is setting on a snowy street.
Candlelight flicks on a sewing machine.
I scrub my face and brush my teeth.
Soapy water in the sink.
Walk against the winter wind and
find a tavern in the street.

December night at 2 a.m.
when Christmas stuff is on the roads.
A winter coat holds up your head
and purple brightens up your cheeks.
You and me, we like lot.
You smoke joint with me for once
and shiver to the doughnut shop.

The branches look so cute around you.
You know the way that winter does that.
And you are me and I am you.
I wish we didn't have to chose..
I wish we had or lives to give.
I wish I could keep one of your eyes
and you have one of mine, I wish.

I wish I did't have to bring
my dirty dishes to the sink.
I want a litle peice of your heart
to keep in a jar by the window sill,
but you are you and I am me.
I guess that's where its gotta be.

18 peices according to season

email ~sign guestbook ~view guestbook~ rings