Sunset at the Temple of Olives
By Paul Suntup
()
About this ebook
The world needs to KNOW what a fantastic writer this guy is. Seriously. One of the great unheralded writers of our time. - Victor D. Infante, “City of Insomniaâ€
There is an abiding innocence throughout Paul's work that is impervious to the cynicism of our times, and that is the best thing of all, for it makes him one of the most gifted and original voices of our generation - Amélie Frank, author
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Sunset at the Temple of Olives - Paul Suntup
writebloody.com
Copyright Information
Copyright © Paul Suntup 2011
No part of this book may be used or performed without written consent from the author, if living, except for critical articles or reviews.
Suntup, Paul.
1st edition.
ISBN: 978-1-935904-23-6
Interior Layout by Lea C. Deschenes
Cover Designed by Joshua Grieve
Proofread by Jennifer Roach and Sarah Kay
Edited by Jamie Garbacik, Courtney Olsen, Alexis Davis, Sarah Kay, and Derrick Brown
Type set in Helvetica by Linotype, Aller and Bergamo: www.theleagueofmoveabletype.com
Special thanks to Lightning Bolt Donor, Weston Renoud
Printed in Tennessee, USA
Write Bloody Publishing
Long Beach, CA
Support Independent Presses
writebloody.com
To contact the author, send an email to writebloody@gmail.com
Dedication
Dedicated to my Mother, Irene Suntup
and to the memory of my late father, Solly Suntup
Sunset at the Temple of Olives
Epigraphs
Everything is supposed to be very quiet after a massacre, and it always is, except for the birds.
–Kurt Vonnegut
Nothing is settled; everything can still be altered. What was done but turned out wrong can be done again. The Golden Age, which blind superstition had placed behind (or ahead of) us is in us.
–Claude Lévi-Strauss
Tunnel
I lost the magician in a bowl of
potato cheese soup.
He would capture my attention
by sculpting tiny faces in my
terrycloth bath towel,
or the knotted pile of the carpet.
I liked the machine.
It made my ears bigger.
Sometimes the size of oceans.
I could hear a child’s heartbeat
in a stick of cotton candy.
It turned my skin into margarine.
I was spread on the sandwiches of dead people.
(Before they died, of course.)
I listened to their conversations over lunch.
When they swallowed me,
I could hear their thoughts.
Matisse.
Magritte.
My grandmother.
She had a tiny steel temple in her chest
where fireflies went to pray.
My father had one too.
So do I.
My hand was once half an exploding star,
my lover’s back the other.
After all that time,
drifting in space
they were reunited.
Briefly.
Sometimes it was too much.
Words on bumper stickers became
wild dogs. They would leap from the vinyl
to the hood of my car.
Radio molested my ears.
Smell was the night sky on July 4th.
But I could fly.
Like a pipe bomb.
I was holy.
Like a voodoo doll.
I’m going to stare at my carpet now.
In a Black Sky
There’s no relaxing here. The one they call Van Gogh empties the
salt shaker for the second time today. Small white planets are counted,
then arranged in miniature orbit around a Medjool date.
Marie hasn’t seen her son in twelve years. Or maybe it’s twenty.
Marie talks about him all the time, but I don’t believe her. I think
she doesn’t have a son. She is a rotten liar.
I don’t believe anyone. Sometimes I sit on the wall in the lunch room,
camouflaged as dust.
One day I’ll get out of here. The first thing I’m going to do is think
the world out of existence. I’ll start with the trees, then move on to
animals. Maybe ducks first then zebras and so on.
Water can stay until I swim to Africa. When I get there I’ll dig a hole
in the ground until I find the bones of my ancestors, then I’ll
make them disappear too. I’ll keep going until there’s nothing left
but orange swirls in