letter to j

speak the names of
lost loves as if the words themselves

                                         have power

do you ever get
tired of this game?

jesus christ, look around!

the books are stacked knee-high
in every room, and
every corner is soft with dust

open the windows

let the past die a peaceful death

grow up
already

________________________________________________________

the bleeding horse considers the failure of growing old

early afternoon in this silent room,
these shades of grey, of blue,
youngest son asleep on the couch,
feverish, sick for three days now and
he sound of occasional traffic,
furnace cycling on, paranoid thoughts
of entropy and desertion

i am less than i was
twenty years ago

i have become a stranger to
anyone i’ve ever known

can find no beauty in mirrors, only
truth, and it tastes like starvation

and i turn away from ringing phones,
from opening doors, and i wish without
hope to erase all of the pain i’ve
caused in my life

i wish without hope

am reminded of why i’ve
forsaken religion
_________________________________________________________

my own life, or possibly someone else’s, and all of the bitter moments that define it

always the fear that
these words are just so much
bullshit

the fear that i will wake up alone
in the burning house
or worse
that i will wake up there
with my family gathered around me

the dream from my childhood where i
lose my voice as the flames begin to spread

where the train is bearing down on me
and i can no longer move

and what if all i can tell you is
that it’s not enough to have compassion
for the weak and the dying?

what if i tell you that
all mercy is wasted?

words

do you see?

the mouth always moving or the
good hand or the mind racing towards
some inevitable dead end

the woman brutally murdered
without reason
in some anonymous parking lot

a child left behind and a husband and
somewhere
the man who will have to bring
them the news

who will have to go home to his
own family and remember
how to breathe

how to smile

how to make sounds that can
almost pass for human

 

 

john sweet, 40, pissed, depressed and essentially benign. single father of 2. believer in writing as catharsis. latest collections include SUNPOISON and ASH WILDERNESS. more unchaperoned fun can be found at myspace.com/bleedinghorsedenied.