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issue 4


a poem by
John Sweet
> bio

meditation on all of the starving dogs
i never voted for

the air wet and dark

the heads discovered in
a dumpster
but the bodies never found
and it's not a poem

it's not politics

maybe nothing more than
dead in a rented room in paris

maybe the tiny hands
of an unborn child found in
a ditch at the side of the road

and do you understand that
the choice isn't
always yours?

give a man a gun and
a god
and watch what he does

pay attention to the sounds
the bones make
as they snap between his teeth

lock your doors but have
no faith
in the idea of safety

believe only in flesh and
all of the ways in which it can
be destroyed

believe only in
the slow crawl of time

each day cut off cleanly
from all the rest
but none of them really
any different

st. garbage

no matter which way you walk
you walk towards water

no matter

no sound but
what you put there

a breeze
a bird
a passing car

which is more of a weight

the price you choose to ask
for your child
and the person you choose
to sell him to

the way the unthinkable
becomes possible

can you admit
you're a junkie?

so what

the world is full of
trembling voices

the ground is full of
forgotten bones

silence is
the choice we make
only after everything else
has failed

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