Pollock Paints Reflection Of The Big Dipper



pollock paints reflection of the big dipper

the sun too bright on saturday afternoon
and nothing i say worth


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

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.

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