map of false desire


said the man is dead

says the river is frozen

all of us nothing more than
pointless stories w/
sad, obvious endings

a certain moment
and then the next

name the silence of
clean white hallways

find shadows in
abandoned parking lots

this is time measured by
decay, by isolation
and loss

sorrow is not despair,
but give it time

the future is a liar, just
like any good soldier

the past gets muddied w/
broken bones and
corruption

these small towns are
the opposite of
everything we should
ever believe in

these cities are worse

keep driving north to
the house of this woman
i’m not supposed to love

stay home and
pull all the shades

no one ever promised you
a war you could win




sea of tears

reach yr dead hands up to
the surface

teach them to burn flags

to assassinate kings

all solutions create new problems,
and so the trick
is selective blindness

sat there in the back yard and
pointed out jupiter and
venus to my sons

spent most of my time
worrying that i was failing them

days got colder until we
ended up at zero

sick at christmas

sky of dirty glass

say to her i am not you and
then say you are not wakoski

say you are not atwood

it helps to be alone

it helps to believe in
redemption

we will all end up dead no
matter how many gods
clutter our rooms


John Sweet lives with his wife and their young son in the wastelands of upstate New York. He has been writing for 19 years now, publishing in the small press for 13. He hates all schools of poetry, and tries to keep his distance from any that seem to be trying to get too cozy with him. His work can be found at Burning Word, Locust Magazine, and Thunder Sandwich. A couple of his chapbooks are available through contacting the editors at Kitty Litter Press and Via Dolorosa Press.