labyrinth, in winter

says cold is one thing says

pain is another

and then to combine the two

to follow the footsteps in the

snow until they reach the river

mother of someone’s baby

son of another dead soldier

it doesn’t mean

she didn’t love him just because

her hands were tied to the headboard

but then why all of the blood?

why all of the bitter february

sunlight hard against these

dirty windows?

seems like somebody’s lying

seems like there were at least

three of them and

taking turns with a video camera

seems like the ice was too thin

just not sure if he was pushed

or if he jumped

still

and the killer is caught,

and his girlfriend weeps

the baby has no chance,

of course,

and the apartment is cold,

the windows loose in their casings,

the grey light of january filling

the rooms like sleeping gas

smell of gasoline,

approach of trains and

               then the fade

an abandoned factory in the

center of town

a wreath of dead flowers

hanging on

the fence that surrounds it

something small for the

world to revolve around

grey lies the kingdom

a slow collapse

in an upstate landscape

an apology

not sincere and devoid of all meaning

but why would you ever think

you deserved more?

why would the dogs ever bother to do

anything but fuck you in your sleep?

look

it’s not the boredom that

kills you in the end

but the pain

death with the head of a crow

riding a silver horse and

it’s the past you’re afraid of

                                       yes

                and it’s the future

it’s all those bright blue

sunfilled days in between

the sound of your name spilling

out of an ex-lover’s mouth

went back to his wife after he

got bored hitting you,

but still wanted to be friends

still wanted to taste your tears

laughed when he told you

it was better than nothing

simulacra

one more asshole wandering

blind & lost in the desert

one more starving poet

one more gracious liar and a

neverending supply of teenage girls

waiting to be tied up and

fucked in front of

the camera

feels like we need a war here

or some new group of people to

persecute and crucify

feels like rain

silver sky streaked with grey and

these old men hiding behind

locked doors

these children shooting at cats

& dogs with pellet guns

shooting each other and laughing and

then the body of someone’s runaway

daughter pulled from the river

been raped of course and

you can give her a name and

you can give her a face and still

                                  no one cares

invent new religions to justify

your atrocities and

then invent new atrocities

build strip malls

between the cemeteries

parking lots filled w/ shining chrome,

mouths filled w/ rust, and this

still the desert

of course

and we are all still lost

words are either

spelled out in neon or

they’re meaningless

no one here will ever

admit to promising you a

future worth inheriting

hex

feels so fucking right caught in the

undertow at the edge of town,

eyes closed against the copper sky and dreaming,

sweating god’s blood into weed-filled back yards,

into the weed-filled parking lots of abandoned shopping plazas,

and from here there is only the interstate

to take you to more of what you’ve left behind

from here it is only 10,000 miles to the

sacred shrine of st maria

to the ghost of beth made flesh

and i remember her smile and

the feeling of holiness and

i remember waves of pure sunlight

i remember being someone better

i forget why i

thought it would ever matter

holiest

the sun through

a haze of snow

through a haze of

frozen despair

end of february,

hum of powerlines

and of history,

the bodies of

children slaughtered

in their sleep

freedom

defined by fear

the silence after

the last prisoner has

been executed

it is no small

victory not to be

a whore

 John Sweet

A LATE FATE

Seas fossilize into parched buttes

trapped shellfish

anthropoids in dark matter.

Time did not freeze

as massive ice ball

and volcanoes

merge into passive resistance

push and pull

on earth axis.

The bacteria count is one.

A joke of cosmic proportions,

life is a stunning pool of

bombarded asteroid

ice

melting eons

upon eons

until the surf is up

the sun is down

and sulfur tide pools

froze hominoids in their tracks.

Enough is enough

when will the party begin?

A TIME TO WRITE

I pleaded with Algren

to cut the bull shit

forget about those whores,

petty thieves

and drunks.

They're a distraction-

you say an inspiration.

But you need to write,

be a good husband-

you told Preminger

to go screw himself

along with Hollywood-

I don't disagree

I would too.

You said you felt unappreciated

in Chicago,

banned books,

corrupt political hypocrisy,

under Bellows arrogant shadow.

Yes

maybe you need

a rest

at a Sag Harbor cottage

by the sea,

it may not be too late

to write

one last novel

about the beautiful woman

with a broken nose.

PHOTOSYNTHESIS  (without equations)

Photosynthesis reveals

a meditation

dreamscape of fossils,

a cosmic crawl

toward life force

past and present.

Photosynthesis reflects

a solar glow of

watery inhalation

breathing dark matter

a disjointed pigment

of a blue green ghost.

Photosynthesis offers

a folly

of  burst molecules

electric in a swampy skin

an ephemeral ocean

of death and decay.

Photosynthesis proclaims

a dazzled synthesis

of sugary

transfer

an emerald  glow

beyond   

measured time,

the end and beginning

twisted

in an eternal web. 

CLIMATE CHANGE

The perch in Lake Michigan

are using anti-depressants.

Don't forget the lonely Spotted Owl

addicted to xanex

as they find shelter

in Pacific Coast pulpwood.

Then there is the howler monkey

who prefers natural St. John's Wort

to soothe jangled nerves.

Yes the list is long.

The only way out is

out,

pushed from fragmented habitats,

an exodus

to a zoo

as human botany

observes

iphone in hand

a selfie

deleted

of natural history

a cry

in a mounted museum.

DIVINE

A comedy?

Inferno

Dark fraudulent night

sleepless shadows

resonate gray masks

colorless voyage into circles of fury

no sunrise nor treacherous sunset

alone by the toxic river

only to return the next day.

Purgatorio

Bland hungry terrace

splashed face of proudly departed

a wrathful detour from humble madness

invisible to impassive crowds

a short breath

climbing

beleaguered from flight

only to return the next day.

Paradiso

Vacant stars in night sky

a full moon

winds of hope

contemplate

the mystery

where knowledge wisely departs

planets evolve and expand

into the sweet abyss of days

only to return

to mystery the next day.

John Raffetto