Poems By John Sweet

john sweet, b 1968, still numbered among the living. A believer in writing as catharsis. Opposed to all organized religion and political parties. His latest collections include HEATHEN TONGUE (2018 Kendra Steiner Editions) and A BASTARD CHILD IN THE KINGDOM OF NIL (2018 Analog Submission Press). All pertinent facts about his life are buried somewhere in his writing.

chasing the prophet

ghost of a january moon

in a pale blue sky

age of failed visionaries,

of beaten dogs

leaves the car

at the freeway’s edge,

walks to the river

sound of angels is

the sound of crows

sound of hope is more subtle

wife, three kids, and no

one gets fat on a diet

self-pity and road salt

no one declares their love

with a bouquet of

broken glass

i always thought

you knew this

landscape w/ fist

on the floor in the back of the car, has his

winding sheet drawn tight, covered in shit,

covered in blood, air thick with the smell of dried

sweat, smell of vomit

          smell of fear and desperation

says he needs his wife and

you tell him he’s not married

asks how much longer?

but doesn’t hear your answer

says he never asked to be a prophet

never asked to be an artist

paints a blue christ crucified beneath a

dull green sky, won’t tell you if

it’s faith or heresy

won’t take his medicine unless you

give him back his needle

believes in power but not in strength and

when you ask what the difference is

he shows you the gun

shoots the kid behind the power to

help explain the importance of freedom

to make a point about inevitability

says the truth will never matter as much as a

lie that makes you lover want to crawl

naked over broken glass just to kiss your feet

fable for the fucked and the forsaken

end of an age and

each day filled with empty grace

had to stand in the late november

sunlight for a minute

just to feel human again

uncertain parking lot of an

abandoned school, and i had to be

made to understand that my

words weren’t poems

was given a flag

was given a shovel

told to start digging at the

pavement’s edge but no one

would explain why

no one would acknowledge

any of the bones i found

the kingdoms

i built from them

bathed in the everlasting glow

this is the one who

calls you faggot

this is the

taste of your own blood

the foot on your throat

thirteen years old, and

have you given any

thought to the future?

have you weighed the

pros and

cons of suicide?

gotta be taught each one,

every second of

every day

explaining fear

afternoon heavy with pale sunlight and

deep shadows,  with longs hours

spent forgetting how to breathe

do it slowly, by faint degrees,

until all sound is reduced to silence

empty house after empty house

ex-lover in one of them with

her bouquet of broken glass

with a book of names for all the

children she’ll never have and

distance is king here

learn the art of receding

understand that well die alone

and never just once

what more could you want when

all i’ve  ever given you is the truth?