June 2003 | back-issues, John Sweet, poetry
i.
the bleeding horse
who is everyone
and no one
who knew pollock
and picasso
who died in ’56
and again in ’63 and
again in the summer of ’97
who lives
stumbles blindly down
all of the empty streets i’ve
ever lived on
crawls crippled through
broken glass alleys
through november fields
in upstate new york with a
crucifix carved into his
soft belly and his
eyes gouged out
who is pain and
the lack of hope in
a sunlit world
things that matter
whether you
talk about them or not
ii.
the burning girl
says she loves you
as she’s dragged through
a barren field in
upstate new york
everything else
smothered by the sound
of flames
iii.
the woman who loves pain
calls me ten years later
to say that all is forgiven
to tell me that
her youngest child is dead
her voice nothing
like i remember it
iv.
the god of starving dogs
refuses to see himelf
that way
wants nothing more than to
fuck this seventeen year-old waitress
with crosses carved into
her wrists
than to rub her face in
broken glass until
she says she loves him
reminds me of my father
ten years after his death
v.
the burning girl
is raped once
and then a second time
screams against
the black and then
lights it up
brilliant but
not like the face of
any god i’d ever call
my own
vi.
the drowning boy
has a name which
no one remembers
is more than just these
last desperate moments
recorded on a cheap sheet
of lined paper
but it’s not enough
to save him
there is possibly
a lesson here
vii.
the poet
hates himself
hates the idea of poetry
and he has no use for god
and only a limited concept
of the truth and
his wife loves him despite
everything
her smile
all he needs to know
about religion
viii.
the queen of open wounds
who i always describe as
naked
and being fucked
who i never knew
any other way
ix.
the man downstairs
with his wife on
her knees
with his hands at
her throat
a picture i’ve painted
a thousand times before
an image i
can’t seem to shake
all of the time
i spent sitting on the
floor and just
listening
x.
the drowning boy
is found
twenty miles away
in the town i grew up in
a small body caught
in the branches
a message from god
if you believe in these things
but what it means isn’t
immediately
clear
xi.
the god of starving dogs
shows up at my door
on a thursday afternoon
holds out his hands
which are empty but bleeding
from where the nails have
been driven through
are stained with the tears
of his wife and child
of the women he’s touched
in windowless rooms
and maybe i
laugh in his face or
maybe i make the sign of
the evil eye or maybe i
just turn away
something this simple to
help split
the future wide open
xii.
my father
collapses on the
kitchen floor
dies two days later
in a
windowless room
i don’t remember
ever telling him
i loved him
xiii.
the room of empty chairs
in a house where
no one speaks the truth
the way men scream
without conviction about
the will of god
the way gorky steps
easily into empty space
spins slowly for
next fifty-four years
xiv.
the eye of god
is blind
the words of christ
are meaningless
picture the bodies
of four small children
laid out neatly
on their mother’s bed
picture a hand held
to a burner
in a house five doors down
from your own
talk to me
about faith with the
smell of charred flesh
wrapped around you
like a shroud
xv.
the man who murdered cheerleaders
only to end up dead in
a prison cell
by his own hand
i will always regret
not being there to watch
this final act
xvi.
the man who crushes the skulls of newborn kittens
and then goes home
to kiss his wife
tastes of blood and
of bone
and she wants more
she crawls
believes there are
worse things
than being in love
xvii.
the burning girl
bleeds
like anyone else
will prove it
if you ask her to
will be remembered as
a better person than
she actually was
the comparison
to christ
too obvious
to miss
xviii.
the prince of swords reversed
who i think
might be myself
a face in a
second-story window
on a street that goes nowhere
in both directions
the weight of the sky in
november
or in january
the sound of my son
playing in another room
something real
xix.
the woman who loves pain
crawls into my bed
on the night
before her wedding
tastes of smoke and
of ashes
and i don’t see her again
for four years
i don’t recognize
the person she’s become
don’t understand
the need for all of these
bitter poems
the act of bleeding
was never meant
to be enjoyed
xx.
the house of the dying man
is where my wife goes
to be happy
calls me at midnight
to tell me she loves me
and then starts to cry
says that what she’s
afraid of
is the future
all of the ways that
things might go wrong
this space that
has grown between us
no matter how close
we are
xxi.
the season of rust
is now
look at your hands
consider the world
beyond your pale blue walls
dirt and ice and
a young boy abandoned
in a store by a man who
no longer has any
use for him
the space shuttle
breaking up over texas like
the failing mind of god
the need to know why
is was up there
at all
xxii.
the season of rust
is forever
this is not prophecy
it’s certainty
i have lived my life in
slowly collapsing buildings
on pitted grey streets
i have stayed thin on
a diet of anger and fear
have become a father
not once but
twice
these beautiful children
who will eventually
be stained by
all of the filth i can’t
protect them from
xxiii.
the queen of open wounds
and her lips that
taste like gasoline
her skin that
bruises too easily
rubbed raw at the ankles
and the wrists and
she smiles for the camera
tells herself that
none of
the pain matters
drinks from a
bowl in the corner then
waits for the next man
to find her
xxiv.
the man who starves horses
says he
knew my father
a drunken fool
he whispers
and then waits for me
to answer
watches my face for
any emotion
laughs when i
turn away
without answering
xxv.
the burning girl
says she just
wants to be left alone
says none of these poems
have anything
to do with her anyway
doesn’t understand
how easily
addictions begin
xxvi.
the human cathedral
which i would never
call home
walls of bone
and windows like eyes
a door
but always locked
from the wrong side
always smeared
with the blood of priests
and the children
they’ve raped
anything built in the
name of god
never meant to stand
forever
xxvii.
the hill of fifteen crosses
where children are buried
where flowers grow
from the bones
this need to
bury tragedy beneath
so much fragile beauty
xxviii.
pollock
who on some days is
the bleeding horse
and on others becomes
my father
always a frightened man
always lost
possibly even myself
which i
almost never admit
xxix.
upstate new york
beneath the grey skies
of february
a woman found
raped and strangled in a
plain white apartment
her boyfriend
disappeared
the smell of gasoline
everywhere
xxx.
upstate new york
and a six year-old boy
who has been
missing for twelve years now
a barn with
JESUS DIED FOR YOU
pinted on the side in
letters ten feet tall
all of the fields
i’ve ever walked
all of the people i’ve hurt
none of these
empty confessions ever what
i mean to say
xxxi.
burnt hill road
and all of the years
it took me to escape from there
all of the excuses i’ve made
to avoid going back
the crosses that have sprung up
at the ragged edges of
dying lawns
the fathers who have raped
their daughters
and their daughters’ friends
the ones who begged for more
xxxii.
the man who starves horses
who sits on his porch and
watches the flies gather
listens to the approaching sirens
looks at the shotgun resting
easily scross his knees
xxxiii.
love
which i
still believe in
despite everything
xxxiv.
the poet
wants to talk
about addiction
34 years old and
a husband and a father
and he wants only to
stand in a sunfilled room
and feel clean
believes only in the
things he can hold and
the ease with which they
can be broken
understands how
useless
words really are
****
portions of this poem originally appeared in Muse Apprentice Guild
by John Sweet
June 2003 | back-issues, poetry
[b]Poem Before a War[/b]
On the cusp of a war,
it makes perfect sense
to write of the warm weight
of your body cradling mine, the way
you grip me where thigh meets torso
pulling me into your thrusts,
your fingers pressed deep in my pale flesh,
how you pin me to the bed
your damp chest on my breasts,
the feeding frenzy of our mouths
tasting each other’s blood-flushed bodies.
Limb on limb, arms akimbo,
gristle on bone and shit-stained gore,
the curve of a head in the crook of some arm,
the pulsing feast of maggots
on the blackened bodies of Verdun, at Auschwitz,
and the mass graves of Sarajevo-
and a poem
of your singularly precious body
on mine.
[b]The Collarbone[/b]
What is it with me, this obsession? Is it
a simple matter of attraction?
If it were, it could have been
any number of people. There are
other men here who have- can you believe it?
shown an interest in me.
Intelligent, attractive men.
No, it’s not that, and gee
but does he realize this, much less care?
He caught me once staring at the little bit
of throat and chest he’d bared
when he unbuttoned his white dress shirt.
I was caught like a man who talks to you
without once looking at your face.
So now, he wears his shirts unbuttoned
past his collarbone when we work together
smiling, watching me
all the while. Jesus.
Just to press my lips to his collarbone.
Never before have I endured
such casual cruelty.
[b]The Blessing[/b]
The sensory misers will inherit the earth, but first they’ll make it not
worth living on.
Diane Ackerman
Blessed are the exuberant, the generous,
who live in a world dominated by tight-fisted
prudes and misers, whose visions go as far
as which private school their kids will go to.
Blessed are the passionate, the brave, who
time and again, wade into the icy waters that divide us,
bracing themselves for the sure anguish of love
but embrace it, nevertheless, refusing
the cheap solace of bitterness and self-pity.
For they are surrounded and mocked by safe people
devoid of desire,
too timid for the mess of deep emotion,
too cautious and responsible
to know the sometime painful rapture of love.
In a world where standards are set by the meek
who fit their generic lifestyles to the most shallow mold,
Blessed are the strong, who make no excuses for their strength,
and who, receiving nothing save
the sideline criticism of the sedentary,
act anyway.
And especially Blessed are the compassionate,
whose concern is borne not of a need to coddle or appease,
but of brutal experience and hard-won wisdom,
who are not hamstrung by the urge to please or bound
by moral ties imposed on them, but who recognize the suffering
of the wholly broken, as only the mended can.
by Rebecca Jung (c)2003
([email]gvenneri [at] bellatlantic [dot] net[/email])
[b]Author’s Notes:[/b]
Rebecca Jung received a B.A. in art history from Kent State University, as well as a B.A. in creative writing from the University of Pittsburgh. Her poetry and short stories have been published in The Pennsylvania Review, Impetus, The Pittsburgh Quarterly, Wazee Journal, MiPo, The Pittsburgh Post-Gazette, CC&D, The Festival of Women’s Voices Anthology as well as other anthologies, and a chapbook titled The Relic Maker. She works as a technical and scientific writer and editor in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. She is a member of Erotic Authors Association (EAA).
