SYNCHRONIZED CHAOS.
From June.
Remember June?
Friday, August 31, 2018
Thursday, August 30, 2018
DEAD KIDS ALL GO UNDERGROUND!!!
Wednesday, August 29, 2018
WITH THE CROWS AT YOUR EYES
Thank you Wayne Burke for the review of SUNPOISON......
Every poem of this collection walks a tightrope over an
abyss. The spaces between lines seem pregnant with possible revelations but
only words come, more words: "meaningless" words, the poet writes,
but there, on the pages, is the undeniable truth of them, and they may lie,
but, who cares? The story is all, and Sweet's dystopian tale is compulsively
readable...The multitude of abused, murdered, and raped come to seem more a
strategy than reflection of a reality--a means of coming to grips with fear,
"fear of everything," the predominant emotional echo of the work...The
senseless chaos of life something to fear--life as crap-shoot sans comfort of
god whom the poet can't "factor" in..."brutal blue sky...stained
with poison"..."clouds like shadows of doubt," in upstate New
York, cold and dark in winter, "relentless" heat in summer;
but--still--there are the others, sons, wives, lovers, to consider; and,
besides, "not every
valley/is the valley of death.”
Tuesday, August 28, 2018
Monday, August 27, 2018
STILL CHILDREN AFTER ALL THESE YEARS
The truth from newnoisemagazine.com:
Though they might be an unfamiliar name to the younger crowd,
Poster Children were a touring machine in the early ’90s, saw some minor
success on MTV (“If
You See Kay”), and
helped cultivate the college rock scene as a verifiable force of non-mainstream
music. After a 14 year hiatus, the band return with a political album that tips
its hat to their early sound and was even engineered by Steve Albini.
Recorded with a live feel, it’s a loud installment of crunchy, multi-faceted post-punk, where
all the power of their legacy is present, and the subject matter bluntly voices
disdain for today’s
status quo. While there’s
a couple of quiet moments to be found, the bulk here is angular, ebullient,
riff heavy rock that’s
charged, driving and tense, where strong guitar work and a fiery rhythm section
make this a triumphant return. If you weren’t a fan before, prepare to be now.
Sunday, August 26, 2018
ALL US LIKE-MINDED FUCKERS
Saturday, August 25, 2018
EVERY DRUGGED-OUT FUCKED-UP DAY OF LATE NOVEMBER
Friday, August 24, 2018
Thursday, August 23, 2018
Wednesday, August 22, 2018
BETWEEN SOMEWHERE & SOMEWHERE ELSE, BETWEEN NOWHERE & NOWHERE
3 from EASY STREET, 2016
with tired eyes
even here in the clean cold light of april
in the solemn emptiness between berkshire & speedsville
between somewhere & somewhere else
between nowhere & nowhere
the shit of civilization pokes up through the rocks and dirt
in the solemn emptiness between berkshire & speedsville
between somewhere & somewhere else
between nowhere & nowhere
the shit of civilization pokes up through the rocks and dirt
cigarette butts bottle caps burger wrapper
crisp blue sky
no sound of traffic or of industry but
two empty beer cans and a broken bottle off the side of
a rutted dirt road
two empty beer cans and a broken bottle off the side of
a rutted dirt road
taste of rust when i turn to kiss you
birds
screaming
screaming
*
why every poem should be the last one
july and this
abundance of weeds, these
vines growing without pause or
regret, smothering and strangling beneath
the flat silver glare of the sky, and
were we drunk?
abundance of weeds, these
vines growing without pause or
regret, smothering and strangling beneath
the flat silver glare of the sky, and
were we drunk?
are we stoned?
takes a handful of pills just to
make me feel normal in the morning
make me feel normal in the morning
took fifteen years to peel away all the
dead flesh and then all i was
was fifteen years older
dead flesh and then all i was
was fifteen years older
sounds like a joke
but the punchline needs work
but the punchline needs work
sounds like a song written from
a great distance and with
broken hands and she says listen
a great distance and with
broken hands and she says listen
she says
just let him die
just let him die
july and the
heat of the railroad tracks
heat of the railroad tracks
the buzz of empty fields
insects and generators and children
sleeping off sicknesses, fans in
curtained rooms and, outside, the broken
toys all faded plastic and splintered
wood, all rusted metal and here,
now,
year of the bleeding horse,
fever dream of my father’s last hours,
i want you to know that i
forgive no one
sleeping off sicknesses, fans in
curtained rooms and, outside, the broken
toys all faded plastic and splintered
wood, all rusted metal and here,
now,
year of the bleeding horse,
fever dream of my father’s last hours,
i want you to know that i
forgive no one
i want you to know that i
have made peace with myself
have made peace with myself
i cast this shadow down these cracked
and buckled sidewalks, over patches of
warm tar, and i am afraid of
everything that exists beyond my control
and buckled sidewalks, over patches of
warm tar, and i am afraid of
everything that exists beyond my control
i am choked with the fear of
all my failures
all my failures
can remember the two of us in love beneath
the absolute weight of the summer sun
but can’t seem to make it matter
the absolute weight of the summer sun
but can’t seem to make it matter
*
without a name, without armor
old man in the corner of a sunlit
room and this is the future, yes, and
this is the past and the important
thing is not that i’m afraid but
that i’m tired
room and this is the future, yes, and
this is the past and the important
thing is not that i’m afraid but
that i’m tired
the important thing is that no one
should ever admit defeat
without first learning the history of war
should ever admit defeat
without first learning the history of war
no one should live in a shack
without electricity, without running water,
with the stench of corpses glued tight
to every waking minute and when i
tell the old man this
he laughs
without electricity, without running water,
with the stench of corpses glued tight
to every waking minute and when i
tell the old man this
he laughs
when i ask about the end he says
he only remembers the beginning
he only remembers the beginning
says he was young
says it was a different room
says it was a different room
doesn’t believe me when i
tell him he’s my father
tell him he’s my father
seems pretty goddamned
sure of himself
sure of himself
Tuesday, August 21, 2018
Monday, August 20, 2018
Sunday, August 19, 2018
Saturday, August 18, 2018
BEAUTY CAN ONLY BE DEFINED BY THE UGLINESS THAT SURROUNDS IT
2004 maybe? Essentially issue 10 of TIN LUSTRE MOBILE, which was always good fun.
blue
here where
the streets all run
blue to the river
where the needle crawls
blind through
forgotten back yards
searching for the
one true vein
every one of these houses
is for sale
every one of these children
unwanted
and do you remember the year
of the burning girl?
it never ended
just spread from town to town
like beauty reversed
do you remember the
season of rust?
you do if
your sister lost her
unborn child
and maybe now you drink
too much
maybe you lock
the bedroom door and cry
while your own children
scratch to be let in
there is no future
so bleak it
can never come to be
indian summer
or october
which is the smell
of wet sunlight
on blacktop
which is the uneasy rush
of waiting to be
a father
of falling from an
impossible height over
some vague expanse
of wasteland
everything
suddenly beautiful
just when it no
longer matters
shaped by fire
she is less
than
what she was
she has been
shaped by
fire
has been
broken down
then put back
together and
no one is
holding
her
no one is
telling her
she's
beautiful
we are all
too busy
turning away
in the afternoon of bitter confessions
in the season of myths
i am empty
in the afternoon of
bitter confessions i remain
silent
these are the walls we
call home and
beyond them
the sky is white
the sun has lost something
is warm but only faintly
like an almost forgotten memory
and the trees all shimmer
beneath it
and the story is yours
and you tell it
softly
the suicide of a friend
or maybe the overdose
maybe the body found
shortly after midnight in any
pointless upstate town
the face black
the fingers rigid
around something
a steering wheel or a
bible or a pack of
cigarettes
and the air is sweet through
these open windows
and i am not
a compassionate man
am not the man you married
my eyes are pale green
my teeth white and even
my smile an angry thing
i could hold you
but don't
could tell you
a story of my own but
choose not to
i have become my
father's son
desperate poem from the season of rust
a small song sung softly
for this woman found
raped and strangled in her bed
an empty gesture
for the living
to comfort themselves with
take it with you
to the hill of fifteen crosses
take it to
the missing girl's door on
an overcast day in september
eight years after the fact
tell her parents that
you believe in redemption
tell them that the spirit holds
more weight than the bones
realize finally
how worthless your lies
really are
myself a bastard son
what i give you is the world
in terms of cancer
people devoured
and objects destroyed
and the simple truth that there
is no cure
that the children next door
stand on the side of the street and
dare each other to touch the
decomposing remains of
a small animal
and this is nothing new
it's where we've come
from the burning of witches and
the lynching of slaves
it's the idea that democracy
by itself
is enough to save us
and i believe in love
yes
but i believe in money too
i believe that beauty
can only be defined by the ugliness
that surrounds it
consider that every year of your life
has been defined to some extent
by war
by the deaths of both
loved ones and strangers
and in the kitchen
the faucet drips and
in the back yard
a cautious version of the sun
appears
the faint shadows of
buildings and of trees
the sound of an airplane
the sky
suddenly luminous with
possibility
letter to kurt cobain, seven years dead, on his 35th birthday
fuck this
idea of heroes
fuck this idea
of gods
of any kind
do you agree?
do you
believe?
i can't hear
you
the moment with clarity, but no definition
or else the boy
walks into his house
to find his brother murdered
his mother dead by
her own hand
blood everywhere
but nothing spelled out
nothing left whole or
recognizable
the future enormous
faith in nothing: a confession
or the smell of slowly
decaying houses
in these first warm days of fall
the unthinking weight i place
on april's heart
and what i can't
seem to shake are the
last meaningless words i spoke to
this man i know before he
went home and put the gun
in his mouth
do you understand that
i'm human?
it becomes harder to prove
with each passing year as the list
of people i would call friends
grows smaller and smaller
and did i have a childhood?
of course
but i can't seem to make
any connections between
the boy i was and the
man i've become
and i continue to
write these poems but what
any of them actually say
is an uncertain thing
what any of us choose
to do in the face of tragedy
seems irrelevant
i know i'm not the
only one to accept this
as truth
the age of pity, softly
this woman with a rope
around her throat
and her lover vanished
the shape of america pressing in
on this place i call home
and distance and speed
and the inevitability of addiction
a child found dead
in a cage
another found dead
in a closet
all of these bodies
covered with cigarette burns
and the constellations they form
when laid side by side
the man who insists that
nothing good can come from
obsessing over these atrocities
that define us
his belief in god
which saves no one
here where
the streets all run
blue to the river
where the needle crawls
blind through
forgotten back yards
searching for the
one true vein
every one of these houses
is for sale
every one of these children
unwanted
and do you remember the year
of the burning girl?
it never ended
just spread from town to town
like beauty reversed
do you remember the
season of rust?
you do if
your sister lost her
unborn child
and maybe now you drink
too much
maybe you lock
the bedroom door and cry
while your own children
scratch to be let in
there is no future
so bleak it
can never come to be
indian summer
or october
which is the smell
of wet sunlight
on blacktop
which is the uneasy rush
of waiting to be
a father
of falling from an
impossible height over
some vague expanse
of wasteland
everything
suddenly beautiful
just when it no
longer matters
shaped by fire
she is less
than
what she was
she has been
shaped by
fire
has been
broken down
then put back
together and
no one is
holding
her
no one is
telling her
she's
beautiful
we are all
too busy
turning away
in the afternoon of bitter confessions
in the season of myths
i am empty
in the afternoon of
bitter confessions i remain
silent
these are the walls we
call home and
beyond them
the sky is white
the sun has lost something
is warm but only faintly
like an almost forgotten memory
and the trees all shimmer
beneath it
and the story is yours
and you tell it
softly
the suicide of a friend
or maybe the overdose
maybe the body found
shortly after midnight in any
pointless upstate town
the face black
the fingers rigid
around something
a steering wheel or a
bible or a pack of
cigarettes
and the air is sweet through
these open windows
and i am not
a compassionate man
am not the man you married
my eyes are pale green
my teeth white and even
my smile an angry thing
i could hold you
but don't
could tell you
a story of my own but
choose not to
i have become my
father's son
desperate poem from the season of rust
a small song sung softly
for this woman found
raped and strangled in her bed
an empty gesture
for the living
to comfort themselves with
take it with you
to the hill of fifteen crosses
take it to
the missing girl's door on
an overcast day in september
eight years after the fact
tell her parents that
you believe in redemption
tell them that the spirit holds
more weight than the bones
realize finally
how worthless your lies
really are
myself a bastard son
what i give you is the world
in terms of cancer
people devoured
and objects destroyed
and the simple truth that there
is no cure
that the children next door
stand on the side of the street and
dare each other to touch the
decomposing remains of
a small animal
and this is nothing new
it's where we've come
from the burning of witches and
the lynching of slaves
it's the idea that democracy
by itself
is enough to save us
and i believe in love
yes
but i believe in money too
i believe that beauty
can only be defined by the ugliness
that surrounds it
consider that every year of your life
has been defined to some extent
by war
by the deaths of both
loved ones and strangers
and in the kitchen
the faucet drips and
in the back yard
a cautious version of the sun
appears
the faint shadows of
buildings and of trees
the sound of an airplane
the sky
suddenly luminous with
possibility
letter to kurt cobain, seven years dead, on his 35th birthday
fuck this
idea of heroes
fuck this idea
of gods
of any kind
do you agree?
do you
believe?
i can't hear
you
the moment with clarity, but no definition
or else the boy
walks into his house
to find his brother murdered
his mother dead by
her own hand
blood everywhere
but nothing spelled out
nothing left whole or
recognizable
the future enormous
faith in nothing: a confession
or the smell of slowly
decaying houses
in these first warm days of fall
the unthinking weight i place
on april's heart
and what i can't
seem to shake are the
last meaningless words i spoke to
this man i know before he
went home and put the gun
in his mouth
do you understand that
i'm human?
it becomes harder to prove
with each passing year as the list
of people i would call friends
grows smaller and smaller
and did i have a childhood?
of course
but i can't seem to make
any connections between
the boy i was and the
man i've become
and i continue to
write these poems but what
any of them actually say
is an uncertain thing
what any of us choose
to do in the face of tragedy
seems irrelevant
i know i'm not the
only one to accept this
as truth
the age of pity, softly
this woman with a rope
around her throat
and her lover vanished
the shape of america pressing in
on this place i call home
and distance and speed
and the inevitability of addiction
a child found dead
in a cage
another found dead
in a closet
all of these bodies
covered with cigarette burns
and the constellations they form
when laid side by side
the man who insists that
nothing good can come from
obsessing over these atrocities
that define us
his belief in god
which saves no one
LIKE SOME PALE CHRIST LEFT HANGING IN THE RAIN
Thursday, August 16, 2018
FUCK THE KILLERS / KILL THE FUCKERS
Wednesday, August 15, 2018
THE PUNCH IN THE FACE YOU'VE BEEN WAITING FOR
Tuesday, August 14, 2018
Monday, August 13, 2018
Sunday, August 12, 2018
Saturday, August 11, 2018
Friday, August 10, 2018
Thursday, August 09, 2018
Wednesday, August 08, 2018
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