Gary Sullivan

THE ART OF POETRY

With humill hart and sobir teiris 
Earth goes upon earth as gold upon gold 
Your ugly token unitie thre knit ane perfyt

Till in one day the dream of Death appear-- 
Then metamorphosis. Delicate-filmed 
Mother's mind thick as forest

No-man-fathomed. Mothy, neither flesh 
Nor fell finyearis small, quhyt as quhailis 
Bane. A condition of your being chosen

Brain become narrow 
& ourtak the in trespas 
To lie astonished in the oblivious pool

Thus destroy the condition of beauty 
With gaistly sicht, behold oure heidis thre 
As ye are now, into this warld we wir.



TERMINAL GENITAL SATISFACTION AVERSION SPHERE

No want with a woman who doesn't love 
mindlessly fertile confirmed in the moment of 
body rigor (law of shit) flinching be- 
neath a mound of earth-like jaw jarring light

extruded throughout life. They figure you out 
an idol to worship. Raw money drug death 
confirmed by rigor & minutiae. Lanky breeze 
look up and down the street but the happy

's gone. There'd been no wars, hated edges 
or intensity, only air 
torn from disregard into bleeding un- 
wound. Topic sentence gazed down upon like

blow job. I opened my eyes into a burst 
of hail. Sniveled. Frozen in some dated family 
photograph. Deep colors seem totally black 
thick (putting arm around). You get been too much.



LOVE'S OSCILLATING

      for Marta

Fond of absolutes & swarming in 
The musical parts unwind. Veering eye- 
Level, hones no better pair of lips 
Than these. Look at me, mon ele- 
Phant & I will be your man. Men 
Attend & men stagger off, desiring exe- 
Mption, teeth, trembling hollow 
To suggest. From the coff of eve 
some bell whorling thru the leaves 
Leaves in looser order to wash each 
Wretched other out. We are complete, 
Corrupt out of bed, abruptly home, ere- 
Ct. Evening drivels distant waves on 
Whom we lie, we love to know away.



PEOPLE IN THEIR ABSENCE
 
Starvation is a chemical. Poor men praise 
whatever worse outweighs 
hope's burn. They write in rags of light
 
over unevents. Each time a little colder 
in the head, eating, like 
say, some more words. & in my world
 
that's what people are supposed to do. 
So, who are you to tell me 
I'm entitled to my opinion? Such food
 
as outstretched hands an offering make 
& make of itself a circle 
w/out end. My favorite evenings are factory ones
 
but I could do the other.



THE CARD

Because the future is vague, even in a room 
where behavior is a calendar, the soul 
cut by a simple barber. Winter's corymb 
two streetcars coupled together, sung 
as any wire strung is never still

Because the air is spoken for. Fib: thieves' 
slang for strike, another way of saying 
this, or that clouds hold up the air. There, 
where ideas are touted, or toted around in 
the pipe-smoking casual behavior of the book.

In a noisy world the ear fills with sea foam 
& love is not love, it is spring, when 
like clothing on the floor beside her bed 
it gnarls that climb. To fall, as a dead body falls 
magnificent & sunburned, dirt encrusted fingers

Coughing light to read by. I feel this lump 
like I'm explaining too much. Who wants heaven 
or taking risks, until he is alone at sea 
& able to see his antlers as rather superficial? 
O little cloud, hover before the eyes & tell me.



35 LINES FROM APOLLINAIRE'S ALCOOLS

My boat leaves for America tomorrow 
I thrust my tongue out at the waves 
From lips stirring the silent water 
Of my mouth. Great ships drag love- 
Less shadows across the earthly tug

Of you my love, my earth. I'm lost: 
My heart, mirror of earth, is brok- 
En. I no longer know anything, only 
Love; condemn me to die, for I love 
No one. This day the sun sprawls a-

Cross the sky, & the streets are a- 
Wash with fresh rain. Slowly I make 
My way, brow clouded with fire, sad 
Since everything is ours loved mad- 
Ly away. & now, my boat floats pale

In solid space. It passes you by as 
You pass by, displaying at once the 
Effort & effect. The drowned follow 
In my wake to their own pale lovers 
Crouched under waves of the burning

Sun. Nothing's dead but what hasn't 
Yet existed. Bells and shrill music 
Will announce my arrival in America 
To know & at last be devoured there 
Where I'll live on beneath Hawthorn

Flowers, lakes & light. Never shall 
I return, but in new clothes wander 
Hat in hand and striding right foot 
First in all directions drag myself 
Beneath the streets beneath earth I

Once loved. My boat trembles on the 
Horizon, all black, & vanquished by 
The clatter of brick waves, blacker 
Than these hands folded together, O 
Our clustered senses woven in light