Poetry Journal Jan. 7, 2024

  


I won't tell you that I am immune, all these long years later I still react the same way as I did back then, this odd sensation that comes over me, sweeping me up as if in a dust storm 

Where I land is unpredictable as a honest roulette wheel, though i know now as I did them, I'm not destined to win, and must settle for admiring from afar.

This is the nature of the beat, the trap in which I find myself, unable to resist her in the same way a bear cannot resist honey, never destined to taste anything more than I have already, and my sticky paws come not from ingesting sweetness so much as a reaction to it, she always there, angelic, her voice ringing in my head, a siren's song with me strapped firmly to the stiff mast of my ship, if only to survive.

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