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?
