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
vallejo
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
hunger
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
