poem for all of the editors who've written to tell me how much they hate poems about writing poetry
"I'm 35, married, a father, angry at a great many things, overeducated, underpaid, deeply in debt, one dead car in the driveway, just waiting for my neighbors to move. Recent work has appeared in DUFUS!, remark, Above Ground Testing and 63channels. Recent collections include
"Enemy," a chapbook from PinkAnarchkittyPress.com; "Silence in the House of Truths," an e-chapbook available at Tamafyhr Mountain Poetry; and "Human Cathedrals," a tasty little full-length collection of angst and bile available from Ravenna Press."
By John Sweet
and i don't believe in god
and i have no use for poets
have no use for wars
or for any of the ways that
words fail us
think about silence
think about the idea of
rape camps
about the reality
the way the human mind
turns concepts
into butchered bodies
and even on days where
i breathe nothing but
pale blue sunlight
i refuse to let go
of my hatreds
i refuse to act on them
which of these
would you define as
cowardice?
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