the sick child in a room filled w/grey light
and rain in the palace of leaning bones
and the fields all thick with mud
with grey weeds
and garbage
and there is only ever where you are
leaking roof
and a man with a gun
homicide or suicide but at
least the baby sleeps through it
the sun is a rumor spread by
maria out on the west coast
you want to believe her
but the car won't start
your fingertips crack and bleed
the poem is no more or less a
waste of time than anything else while
we wait for the weather to clear
leonard sends news of another dead poet
midnight in the palace of
leaning bones and
you sleep poorly
rain down the walls, staining
the pictures, blurring them, phone
almost ringing but not quite and
in the dream your oldest
son was dying
awake
you're paralyzed
afraid to walk across the hall,
afraid to look too closely
in the mirror
not as old as your father yet,
but older than cobain
older than christ
useless acomplishments in a
world already
overflowing with them
no luck, only slowly dying machines
can't just sit in the
corner swallowing your own blood
forever
can't be a prophet when you have
nothing to say
so just shut up
just stand there laughing
holding handfuls of fire for the
starving children to eat
know that i love you and then
know that i hate you and that the
stars are all dying
should one of us care?
will either of us ever grow
cold enough to
put the other in the distant past?
seemed like a possibility once
the sunlight all turned
to snow
john sweet is opposed to all organized religion, a believer in sunlight and in surrealism as a way of life. most recent collection is The Century of Dreaming Monsters (2014 Lummox Press). Before that was Human Cathedrals and others going back into the mists of the late 20th century. He continues to be an ongoing concern.
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