John Sweet: three poems

WHEN HAMMERS CRUSH THE SKULLS OF POETS

i sit at
my typewriter
this afternoon
while pregnant women
step on land mines
in cambodia

while soldiers drag
young girls off to
windowless rooms

while hammers crush
the skulls of poets

and these words are
a sad attempt
at anger

and this
armchair hatred
isn't much but
it's my own

tonight i'll be
surrounded by
the bones of
eighty thousand
starving children
but i'll still eat
my dinner

don't mistake my
confessions for
guilt



TEETH

all of us always
digging for blood

even in february
with the ground frozen
and our fingers
scraped down to
weeping pulp

and this is a poem
for the underweight babies
of sixteen year-old girls

a reminder that
the crows have teeth
and a twisted sense
of humor

i've spent
too many afternoons stoned
on self-pity not to
enjoy it

and what i believe in
is licking the sunlight
from your thighs

or the mundane reality
of credit card bills
and flat tires
and public executions

the pointlessness of
suicides
with second thoughts

the ugly sound of
my own laughter
taking up too much space

my smile white and even
and just begging to
be kicked down
my throat



THE SEASON OF BUTCHERED HOUSEWIVES

we watch the indians
starve

watch the
doublewide trailers
burn

we believe in violence
not war

believe in rape
and genocide
and babies abandoned
in rest stop
bathrooms

bodies hung from
empty trees
in this season of
butchered housewives
where blood stains
the snow in
suburban back yards

and i write
small ugly poems for
everyone i love

i write
small ugly poems
for everyone i hate

and no one is
forgiven

no one is absolved

i can't be
any more generous
than this