John Sweet - Four Poems
notes on self-doubt as the age of crucifixion approaches
almost cold and the
distances have begun
to stretch in the evening air
the sky is hung like some
late-arriving gift from tanguy's grave and
silence in this town of course
is never actually silent
but is only the sound of the
highway heard from across the river
the sound of the wind moving
blindly between the houses of strangers
and what if i've forgotten how
to make you feel loved?
what if everything i know
can be devoured by rust?
there are too many days now where
i understand why
a man might turn away from his own reflection
where every word i've ever written
is held up suddenly in the
light of clarity and shown to be
meaningless
and self-hatred is
what i learned from my father
and addiction
and i remember crying for the first time
three years after his death
and i refuse to accept that
i'm what
someone else has made me
and this is not a poem
this is medication
i know
because it burns
words scratched quickly into the skin
do you remember
cobain?
some unwilling spokesman
for a generation of
feral dogs
and all it got him
was dead
and gorky and rothko
and hemingway and
all i'm asking for
today is rain
all i want is for
the crows to blot out
the sun
these are words scratched
quickly into the skin
even as the baby begins
to move in the
next room
these are small prayers
from a man who will
always turn his back
on god
who among you has
the need
to hear them?
***originally appeared in Pig Iron Malt
plane crashes off the california coast
is there a song for
this moment
when the first body floats
to the surface?
a prayer?
and what if the fingers and toes
and last terrified seconds
are those of a child?
can you look your god in the eye?
it is no small gift asking
these questions without answers
picture a man slightly drunk
and alone in a house
too big to be alone in
picture the house falling apart
but slowly
subtly
the windows warped
and the casings cracked
and none of the walls meeting
at right angles
a leak in the roof that he
keeps meaning to patch
a slowly spreading stain on
the bathroom ceiling
and two hundred miles away
his wife and son sleep
without dreams
and three thousand beyond that
the captain's voice is small
and filled with water
what he offers is a prayer
these bodies all around him
being carried slowly up
to the light
***first published in Human Cathedrals
poem which, when held at the proper angle, becomes a portrait of michael gira
the sky suddenly deep with
the weight
of approaching autumn
the poems like small miracles
or minor saints
like ordinary men shot dead
on quiet streets
in front of their wives and children
and i want to tell you that
the violent acts of strangers don't matter
but you turn away
i want you to believe
that love is some sort of salvation
but i can never say it with
a straight face
look at gandhi
look at lennon
think about what it means
when a newborn baby is found
In a knotted plastic bag on
a philadelphia sidewalk
think about the sun
pure white light traveling
through all of that empty space
just to show you how dark
your future will be
***originally appeared in Burning Word
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