Thursday, March 5, 2020

John Sweet writes

the weary mind

late spring or middle of summer,
getting high in the underbrush down by the river,
other side of the highway from the plastics factory,
smell of death everywhere and there is no
chance of winning the war

there is no hope of escaping the past

your wife,
your sons, your father’s ghost and
when was the last time you were
loved without limit?

what was the last promise you made
that had no loopholes?


there need to be more choices

something between VULTURE and CARRION
or something beyond

something above

aniline blue or cerulean and
with mediterranean sunlight

with a luminous heart

and who are you to believe in
the endings of poems?

what name do you give the joy that
you take in your lover’s pain?

it’s simple

to deny the birth of christ is
to deny his death

to pull the trigger when you’re told
isn’t the same thing as bravery

there is no end to the number of
children waiting to
butchered in the quest for power

there is no end to the lies passed off as
absolute truths that fall from
the cancerous mouths of fictitious gods

early autumn
let’s say
with the past always in the
ever-receding distance

your memories of sharp edges and broken glass,
metal blades,
dangers that refuse to be dulled by time

a family filled with victim who
refuse to fade gracefully

refuse to live long enough
to die of old age but
who am i to scream about justice?

who are you to preach the need

gouge out your own
just to get the ball rolling

stare into the crippled sun
and tell me what you see

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