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JOHN SWEET
poem as deconstruction caught somewhere between the act of writing and the act of not writing the simple violence of sitting in a silent room with nothing but my life lies mixed with truths and all of the scars and harsh angles that define my face a letter from a man who says that my work shows promise who doesn't understand what a fucking waste of time poetry is all of these frightened bleeding words and still the days fall apart north, past dryden, past cortland or the way the sky refuses to give up its light in july the way the disappeared are forgotten their faces first and then their names and then the fact that they were ever loved at all small crosses planted on the side of the highway and the way they rot the way nothing grows around them but weeds and not everyone tires of blaming god for their pain not every deserving tongue is cut out look at you look at me all of the addicts that fill the miles between us all of the children learning how to inflict pain or receive it at what point do we tell them that these are their only choices? john sweet, 35 and counting, angry, bitter, etc etc, hiding in a pissant town in upstate new york, a believer in very little. a follower of the writings of j. pollock and of the words of h. frayne. too much education, and still a shit job. recent publications include the chapbook Enemy (www.pinkanarchkittypress.com), the full length collection Human Cathedrals (www.ravennapress.com) and the electronic chapbook Silence in the House of Truths (www.tmpoetry.com). |
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© 2004 Underground Voices |
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