snow at the end of march and
the baby sick and
what i've been thinking about for
the millionth time is my
father's death
what i've been weighing are
my lack of options
the bills and the broken windows
and the door hung crooked
this pale grey light that
pours in through the empty spaces
these oceans we've crossed
just to slaughter the natives
just to build a nation of
fear and hatred from
their bones
and no one
calls sylvia a coward and
no one spits on bukowski's
grave
the dogs are hungry but
the baby isn't dead yet
the crucifixion isn't over
do you see?
the boy is sixteen
he has a gun and a
handful of reasons that end up
meaning nothing
he is somewhere between
who you were and what
i've become
asks do you believe in god?
but doesn't wait for
an answer
invents america instead
walks the length of it
with his eyes closed
enters the
house he calls home and
and opens fire
the children asleep and
the half-light of the hallway
the edges of objects placed
tightly against their shadows
no room for sorrow
but it exists
slips in through shuttered windows
crawls like the dying man
across this cold kitchen floor
like his wife into
her lover's bed
not betrayal but fear
or maybe they're the same
maybe this kid kills
just because he can
maybe it's easier than rape
more personal than war
his smile
just before he
pulls the trigger
John Sweet has outlasted every small-press fad for the past fifteen years. He found a 3-CD set of Bruce Springsteen's essentials for $12 at Wal-Mart.