BUILDING SOMETHING DARKER IN THE RUINS OF THE HUMAN CATHEDRAL

So, it’s looking like the possibility of 2 new collections in the next few months -

a smaller side-stitched collection of recent stuff and a bigger “selected works” retrospective-type thingie covering published work from the 2005-2016 period (plus an additional selection of

new, unpublished work to lure in all of the

completists).



I won’t bore you with the story of THE GREAT FLOOD here but, suffice it to say, I lost all

of my paper archives about 15 years ago,

probably 12-15 years worth of zines, broadsides, fancy journals, postcards and general poetry ephemera.  Probably not a huge  loss for the history of mankind, but it puts a serious

damper on ever having a COMPLETE WORKS

OF JOHN SWEET see the light of day.



So be it.



I’ll spread the word when/if these alleged collections ever see the light of day.













sleepless





don't give me the gift
of jesus christ



don't tell me that faith
carries the same weight
as anger



who would you kill
without regret?



silence is one lie
denial another



at some point
every age becomes the
age of gold



we are all worth more
or less
than someone else



we are never enough



and maybe you recognize this as
the root of all wars



maybe you believe in
blind absolutes like good and evil



a young boy left in a
department store
by his mother's boyfriend



the mother dead and
her body hidden
and what happens next is that
the world moves on



the boy pushes beyond the
edge of the poem



grows up
or possibly doesn't
like others i've known



billy drunk and unconscious
in a burning car



linda devoured by cancer



always the phone at two a.m.
and the faint smile in
the voice on the other end



this girl at the door who says
she just needs
a place to spend the night



says she'll fuck you
but that needs a ride to
her cousin's house in the morning



says her prescription ran out
two weeks ago
and she can't afford any more



asks for a beer



a cigarette



says she hasn't slept in
three days and in the
morning she won't look at you



doesn't want to hear about
pollock or picasso and when you
get back home you
notice that the money's gone
from your wallet



you consider all of the lies
your father ever told you



all of the reasons you have
for hating them
and the way that all it makes you
is tired


the way his friends
disappeared after picking
the corpse clean and now
here i am seven years later with
my wife and children



with nothing in the bank
and the mortgage due



with this anger which can
feed me for
another hundred years but which
burns the skin from my
family's bones



which makes me as hateful a
god as any of yours



my hands moving always
without regret