September 2001 | back-issues, John Sweet, poetry
sufocatingly hot again without
warning
and i spend
too much time in my car
at the edge of this parking lot
reading names from the book of
overdoses
i wake up always in the
memory of a burning house
look around you
the land here has risen up
only to fall back on itself
the roads are lies and i have been
believing them for too long
i can’t explain it any better than
this
i was never promised anything
but still feel cheated when the
blood i taste
is my own
and so i turn against my wife and
son
i walk from room to room in
an empty house
and there is a sound the phone
makes
when it doesn’t ring
and there is no way to measure
silence
there is no way
to lash out against it
it’s a simple mistake equating
nothingness with god
September 2001 | back-issues, poetry
Five Haikus
by Anita Garza
([email]anital [at] burningword [dot] com[/email])
Tossing and turning
Awake, I am, in the night
Slumber will not come
Safely protected
In your arms, I want to be
From all things evil
Daylight brings laughter
In the heart of the city
Night, dangers abound
Children dream pleasures
Joyful and playful their lives
Pray, they find their way
Spring rain sparkles bright
Winter, dormant life awaits
Spring rain makes life new
Survivor
by Michael William Giberson
([email]michaelg [at] burningword [dot] com[/email])
Should the dead rise
To take your stead,
And you lay
Bleeding in his place,
The silent covenant
Between you bred
Of circumstance
Would not alter.
Do not rage your dissolving heart.
Do not rail God’s dusty plan.
September 2001 | back-issues, John Sweet, poetry
the poem is
just beneath the
skin
the skin is pale and
easily opened
what happens though
is this
i find myself
out of words
out of breath on
the front steps with
the roses i bought
already fading
with apologies falling
dead
from my lips
and if i’m not a
person you could ever
love and if
you don’t have the strength
to hate me
then what?
we are all afraid in
the thin air
of passing days
held to the ground by
the sheer grey enormity
of the sky
by the lack of
possibility
one among us just
waiting for the
perfect moment to step
forward and be
crucified
September 2001 | back-issues, John Sweet, poetry
and she is there
at the edge of the field
she is gathering flowers
and the sky
surrounds her
we are not lost
we are not forgotten
we are hopeful
and the book of days is empty
and in the town we left behind
the poets have all
been hung
this is the truth
everywhere
this is the sound of crows
after three months with
no rain and she
is there
she is gathering flowers
and they turn to dust in her
delicate hands and
the poem inside her heart was
never meant to be read
was never
meant to be written
and the dust falls through
her fingers with the slow
grace of angels
and we are far from home
but hopeful
September 2001 | back-issues, John Sweet, poetry
but the horse is
crippled
the rider blind
the doors of the weak
are always waiting
to be kicked in and
i have been promised
rain for
three months now
i have watched
the rivers fade to
dust
i have watched the
hand that holds the flame
reach out to the burning boy
and the smell of his pain
was familiar
the sound of trains
unmistakable
and the screams of young girls
as the showers were
turned on
this is destruction
far beyond the feeble scope
of god
do you understand?
the mother is starving
and has nothing to eat but
her child
the child is sick
and will be dead before
the season of famine
is over
if the word you choose is
[i]mercy[/i]
there will be no one
with the courage to
listen
August 2001 | back-issues, poetry
[b]Fighting[/b]
we square off
just outside the bar
this all started when
he looked me dead in
the eyes and said:
“what the fuck are you
looking at, motherfucker?”
he outweighs me by fifty pounds
and stands six inches taller
I’m hopping up and down in place
and he’s still trying to get
his jacket off, while his
old lady is screaming at him
to kick my ass.
he is watching the swelling crowd
taking in all their bullshit
and believing it, when
he should be watching
me
I’m jumping out of my
skin
seeing everything
so clearly that the edges
of my vision
threaten to grate
against each other
and crack into a million
pieces.
“fuck it” i think
and for a second, i swear to god that
i love this half drunk red-neck and
his half tore up old lady.
i throw up a half dozen
ghost punches
1 2 3
1 2 3
light as air
a secret heart of
violence
lies at the center
of all men.
his arms struggle free
of his jacket
and i watch it flutter to
the ground
for a second it becomes
a pure wave
in the strong wind.
when it hits the ground
i am moving in.
light on my feet.
ready for pain.
my fists feel
like lightning.
howitzers.
[b]Cricket Music[/b]
stoned on a
hill top in
oklahoma
when suddenly
the band struck up
a cacophony
a blitzkrieg
an orchestra
ten million crickets
banging away like
crazy
on ten million little
gongs
cymbals
and tambourines
angry little jazz
crickets
we were
a little bit
amazed.
[b]Country music[/b]
steel guitars
and banjos
and clanging
honky-tonk
piano
the sweet
harmonies
that sound like
you’ve heard them
all your life,
and you have,
you can still remember
your mother doing
a little two step
across the kitchen
floor one day
while you were
still hanging
low in her
belly.
just think back far enough.
if you’ve ever smoked
a joint and
listened to willie nelson
hum magic
or jerry jeff
tell us how he got it all wrong
again
or hank snow
mourn for frauline…
well, then you feel it.
cause in the end
they tell us that he
is from the south
and that she finally
left him,
and that he is drunk again,
and that his heart is
sick
and will never heal
and that even this
is beautiful.
by Joel Abel
([email]cricketbomb [at] yahoo [dot] com[/email])
