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?

look

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

of AN EYE FOR AN EYE?

gouge out your own

just to get the ball rolling

stare into the crippled sun

and tell me what you see