May 2002 | back-issues, John Sweet, poetry
[b]malevich dreams of taking his own life in upstate new york[/b]
or maybe i talk casually of a
church brought down by an earthquake
until the bodies of children are
pulled from the ruins
maybe i grow tired of
the endless white space between
obvious truths and firm beliefs
of the lack of money that has
come to define my life
and what attracts us to words written on paper
of course
is the fact that they can be burned
we all claim a god’s eye of our own
and we all let the starving starve
we let pollock wade through broken glass
as long as he promises to bleed
because a person gets what he deserves
and i remember saying this about my father
two weeks before his death but
forget the reason why
i wanted to feel guilt but
everything is lost so easily
behind these grey sheets of rain
this begins to
sound like the sad
fucking excuse that it is
May 2002 | back-issues, John Sweet, poetry
up these stairs to
this room
and all the times
i tied you to
the bed
all the times you
begged
and all the ways your
father died
seven years now
coming down hard
windows broken
doors left open
the soft drip of
the kitchen sink
i know i’ll find you
crying
i know
every moment will
be wasted
there is no
great trick in
living the same
frightened life
again and
again
May 2002 | back-issues, John Sweet, poetry
how many years now wasted
weighing the word [i]love[/i]
on broken scales?
there is no religion
to be found here
only stigmata
and the taste of dust
empty room
after empty room until
you finally reach the one
you call home
in this corner
a man shot in the face
from less than a
foot away
in that one
the woman who loves pain
screaming for the baby
she never had
you will become
one or you will become
the other and
either way
your future has been
determined
there is nothing left
but to be
nailed to it
April 2002 | back-issues, John Sweet, poetry
the poet drunk at
three in the morning
mops out the
bathrooms
listens to
the sound of bleach
crawling into the
cracks on his hands
he peels potatoes and
cuts homefries
and hides in the cooler for
another beer
stepping out
he checks the clock
four hours
until he can return
to his typewriter and
his mind is a numb tunnel
filled with empty
rushing trains
[i]sleep[/i]
is a word that still
holds meaning
[i]surrender[/i] is another
the poet
hungover at noon
is too tired to
bleed
April 2002 | back-issues, John Sweet, poetry
[b]sacrilege[/b]
up close
you are anyone
and then even closer
no one
i sound like
my father
here
how long has this
been happening?
* *
[b]image of the virgin mary appears on a factory wall in juarez, mexico[/b]
which god
do you pray to
when the baby
is born
dead?
what does he
say?
what can he?
* *
[b]afterimage[/b]
walking through
february rain with
jonathon and
there is war
not mine
and not his and
he laughs as he
curls five tiny fingers
tight around
the sky
all any of us
want
is everything
April 2002 | back-issues, John Sweet, poetry
we approach the age of
possible cures slowly
if we number the dead
we do it backwards
and starting at one thousand
two will be the person
you hold most dear and maybe
you’ll never reach it
maybe you’ll be forced to choose
a child or a spouse
or even a younger sister and
what happens is this
we make love
on the living room couch in
the coldest part of april
the sky is a gift from magritte
the houses on this street
somewhere between obsolete
and sinister
you ask me again how
my father died and i tell you again
that i don’t know
he was alive and then
he was on the kitchen floor
he was hooked up to
competent machines and then
the machines were turned off
and it’s here that
the baby wakes up
and the story is forgotten
until next time
it’s here that the world of
barking dogs and ringing phones
reasserts itself
what goes left unsaid
is that no one has been saved
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