.
.
pollock paints reflection of the big dipper
the sun too bright on saturday afternoon
and nothing i say worth
believing
listen
i love you
i’m afraid
all of these ideas
that become empty shells
the air cold where it
touches my fingers
shadows curved sharply up
the sides of houses
and down all of the meaningless streets
i’ve ever lived on
and what happens when every country
has been carefully defined?
why do we care if
certain babies are left to die in
windowless rooms?
i’ve got fences to build
holes to dig and nails to hammer
entire days to waste
holding objects in my scraped
and bleeding hands
and does it matter if the war is lost
when it’s fought 5000 miles away?
there are those who claim it does
there are instances when
i’m mistaken for my father
when all i can taste are his ashes
the phone ringing in
another part of the house while i
stumble drunkenly across the
bedroom
my friends dead or disappeared
my letters returned unopened
notebook after notebook
filled with words scribbled down and
then crossed out
not poems but prayers
not god but religion
small moments of illumination
that mean nothing in the end
.
About the Author: 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 APPROXIMATE WILDERNESS (2016 Flutter Press), BASTARD FAITH (2017 Scars Publications) and the limited edition HEATHEN TONGUE (2018 Kendra Steiner Editions). All pertinent facts about his life are buried somewhere in his writing.
As It Ought To Be 