high
december, january, and all of
the ordinary horrors
sixteen year-old girl drowns her
newborn baby in the toilet
box full of maps
room full of nothing
tried to sustain my anger,
but i couldn’t
there were bills that
needed to be paid
small dogs crawling on their
bellies through shit & filth
potholed roads
you want to drive to the ocean
but can’t get past the hills
it’s a joke told by a man whose
eyes have been gouged out
you laugh with him
or you laugh at him
you find the body in a landfill
flowers push up through
the bones of forgotten saints
all of our darkest dreams
make perfect sense in the
bitter grey light of day
john sweet, b. in the year of our lord 1968, date of death still to be determined. filled with directionless rage, yet strangely passive. depressed beyond words, yet brimming w/ sarcastic humor. best left to himself. published collections include ASH WILDERNESS and HUMAN CATHEDRALS. unpublished collections too numerous to list
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