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    Sunset at the Temple of Olives
    Sunset at the Temple of Olives
    Sunset at the Temple of Olives
    Ebook86 pages39 minutes

    Sunset at the Temple of Olives

    By Paul Suntup

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    About this ebook

    Paul Suntup, like many great artists of their time, has spent years in near obscurity with respect to his poetry. The publication of Paul's first full length book of poetry will finally establish this man as one of the most original and gifted voices of his generation. The imagery and cadence in Paul's poems is nothing short of miraculous. With very few words he is able to speak to our senses in a way that is at once reminiscent of some of the great poets, and at the same time, delivered in his own fiercely original and inventive voice. This long-awaited first book will please fans who have already discovered his writing, and will also open the doors for new readers to enjoy. This collection of poetry will become one of the more prized and admired works from a modern day poet.

    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
    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherWrite Bloody Publishing
    Release dateAug 13, 2010
    ISBN9781935904236
    Sunset at the Temple of Olives

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      Book preview

      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

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