September 2003 | back-issues, John Sweet, poetry
each day like filth
scraped from the eye of god
each moment pure
and i offer no explanations
when i tell you that
both are true
i eat dinner while paul hill
is put to death
i have seconds
and how is it that
in all the years i wasted in school
i never learned about
the babi yar ravine?
in whose blood are the names
of all the slaughtered
written?
picture the world reduced
to those who would invent the machine gun
and those who would use it
picture mercy as
being allowed to die before
your daughters are raped
remember that malevich had his reasons
for painting white on white
remember that pollock knew them
that he dreamed his own death
and does anyone care when a
pedophile priest is murdered?
is the world a better place when
his bones have been
picked clean by the crows?
it gets to the point where
every question is only a means
of avoiding the truth
where august becomes september
and none of us
can offer any comfort
and what i think about is
this waitress on her knees in a
dirty bathroom with her
pants undone and a stranger
standing over her
what i think about is
how good hatred feels
all of the ways it can be
turned into power
September 2003 | back-issues, John Sweet, poetry
at some point
america is supported by
nothing but the bones of
goebbels’ children
at some point
the starving have nothing to eat
but each other
and august of course
dissolves into september
and a seven year-old boy is hit
by a car while playing in the street
in front of my house
and what if no one
knows where he lives?
what if dali wakes up in a
room on fire?
at some point
there has to be a distinction between
reality and art
a woman’s eyeball sliced open
or a baby found dead in
a plastic bag on a street corner
my son drawing airplanes
at the dining room table
his smile
when i tell him a joke
all of the days i’ve wasted
waiting for
the future to arrive
August 2003 | back-issues, Kelley Jean White, poetry
to peel an orange in one continuous spiral
one perfect careful stripe of orange with just a fingernail
and thumb, lay the sweet fragrance onto hands
and into the room, put the fruit
one segment at a time
into your mouth, then rewind the peel
into a perfect globe, each edge remet and fit
to its brother whole, hollow, yes, emptied, but perfect still
August 2003 | back-issues, Kelley Jean White, poetry
Handmade
Golden light on a square
of overgrown grass and dandelions.
I pull the shade.
Yesterday
in the damp night
I shattered
china
on the porches
on the walkways
on the railings
on the doorways
on the thresholds
Since I could not speak
I wanted to bleed.
Now that you
have taken away
the key
I hate locks.
Breaking and entering
I have broken
my own hands.
(Handmade
Golden light on a square
of overgrown grass and dandelions.
I pull the shade.
Yesterday
in the damp night
I shattered
china
on the porches
on the walkways
on the railings
on the doorways
on the thresholds
Since I could not speak
I wanted to bleed.
Now that you
have taken away
the key
I hate locks.
Breaking and entering
I have broken
my own hands.
August 2003 | back-issues, Kelley Jean White, poetry
Brickhouse Blues
See these men out shooting craps
up against the brickhouse wall,
these men all shooting craps
up against that brickhouse wall,
hear them dice click on the pavement,
see them dollars fall.
Here come this little man
bouncing his basketball,
along come a little man,
bouncing a basketball,
hair all done up in plaits,
don’t hear his Mama call.
See him fanning out his hand,
see eleven-twelve dollar bill,
he be fanning out his hand,
got eleven-twelve dollar bill,
lays ’em on the sidewalk
and that grifter start to shill.
If I had me a dime
I wouldn’t play you wicked game,
no, not even a dime,
I wouldn’t play that wicked game,
I’d hold up my head,
walk right by you all the same.
Woman walk by
she got two big mean-eyed dogs,
woman walking by,
with those two big mean-eyed dogs,
they go snarling at those mens,
all those useless little dogs.
