The 13^th WR

IN THE YEAR OF DEAD POETS

no one smiles in
the year of dead poets

we eat the bones of
the ones we've outlived

we write elegies
and dance on graves
and the politics of cancer
remain unchanged

shrapnel still rips through
the throats of
innocent bystanders

politicians
are still dragged from
their homes
in the grey hours of
the morning
and shot to death
in empty parking lots

and we laugh like
children

we go insane
like trapped animals
gnawing off their own legs

and some of us believe
in america
and the rest of us believe
in survival

we burn our houses down
on overcast autumn
afternoons

we turn our backs on
the people still inside

we wait to see what grows
from the ashes

SUNDAY AFTERNOON

on sunday afternoon
it's the dream
of motion

waking up to men
with shovels
in stillborn fields

and you cry for
your sister

cry for the idea of
your child

tears to stain these
freshly painted walls
and some doors
open freely
and others require
magic words

even here in the
twentieth century
with hemingway's brains
dripping to the
floor

with chandler buried
in his pauper's grave

and i'm afraid of
you breaking
like glass in my
hands

i'm afraid of
your blood

i'm afraid

this
finally
is the only thing
that matters

- John Sweet