the truth, in different forms

a quiet song while
the baby sleeps

a need to remember this day

to walk from room to room
looking for my father's bones

eight years now
and the fact that i can
no longer remember his face

the fact that every poem
has become an act of hatred

has become a mirror
or maybe the sun

something to stare at
until all i am is blind



cold sunlight on the burned house
or the hand of christ
cut off and thrown to the crows

a thing you'd remember
if you were there

a country that would
kill its own and call it good

the two of us
alone in a soft white room like
nothing else mattered


john sweet, b. 1968, single father of 2. believer in writing as both chaos and catharsis. overeducated, underpaid, opposed to all schools of poetry, organized religions and political parties. has been quoted as saying 'there's nowhere to go from here, but down".