says this says we
are in god’s field and holds
out her hands to feel the
falling snow but i’m
not so sure
i have seen the tire ruts
fill with blood
i have heard the crippled preach
have heard them claim there
is no bravery in slaying ghosts
have listened to the mothers of
weeping daughters as they
explained my failures
found myself
agreeing with them
found myself in this field
middle of december
storm approaching
and she says the trick is to
never go straight for the eyes
she says the trick is
to come up from behind
kisses the spot where the
knife would be driven home
man crawling on the ocean floor
sick of myself at 4 in the afternoon
ice on the shadowed sides
of sleeping factories
weeds
no news from god since
before i was born
and then the death of his only son
played out for cheap entertainment
this is the world you inherit
and then it becomes
the one you pass down
these are the dreams you dream
after your lover leaves
daughter was only three years old
was filled with cancer
and the sunlight was a lie
the moment approached and
then it passed and
the fear is what remains
nothing is revealed
nothing is given away
listen
in the moment of truth
there is only silence
in silence
there is only the sound of rain
all distance matters until you
cross it and finally know
yourself to be lost
lullaby, for beth
or here in the wilderness where
the houses turn themselves inside out to
reveal animals fucking children on
garbage-strewn floors
where the sky has no color
where the roofs collapse and the
basements fill with water
a stranger’s house and so you
sleep in a stranger’s bed
and dream of escape
spend your money on poison
drive away finally on the coldest day of
the year and
when your car breaks down like
you knew it would you
continue into the west on foot naked and
blindfolded until you feel the
sun begin to warm your skin
pray
if it makes you feel better
sing if it
keeps the past from rising up
to devour the future
call me when you finally grow
tired of christ’s neverending pain
John Sweet sends greeting from the rural wastelands of upstate New York. He is a firm believer in writing as catharsis, and in the need to continuously search for an unattainable and constantly evolving absolute truth. His latest collections are A NATION OF ASSHOLES W/ GUNS (2015 Scars Publications) and APPROXIMATE WILDERNESS (2016 Flutter Press).
