My Last Five Years Spent Living in the Shadow of the Palace of Futility. {poetry}
In the half-light of our last good days, in the
quietest room of the burning house
couldn’t get warm and
we couldn’t stay lost, and when
your father showed up, he
said the baby was his
wanted money and he wanted
a different life
wanted another drink and… and I
forget where he was finally buried
I forget why your mother hated me
but not that she did
held on to her rage like some
precious holy relic
and so I became her god
I became her faith but
what about the burning house?
Were we ever actually there?
25 years later and all of the ashes
have been consumed
we have stayed hungry
we have grown old
have wasted our lives speaking of hope
in the kingdom of nil
either no one listens
or no one hears
can you see the difference?
Ignorance vs malevolence, and
in the end, it’s
not the size of the war that matters, but
the quality of pain inflicted on
those who survive,
but do you believe this?
A world where
suffering is deemed holy
an empire built not on wealth, but
on the idea the wealth is all that matters and
was it suicide?
Did he drink himself to death?
Saw him for the last time in some
rat-trap one-room apartment on the north side,
said $200 would get him through the month
said the baby was his
but that we could keep it
said $400 was all he’d need, and then he
started peeling the skin from
his face, but
failed to become someone else,
failed to be anyone we knew
1990? ’91?
Somewhere in there, dead grey sky of
late winter, and all you wanted was
to let me know that you loved me and
all I wanted was your sister’s number
Charlotte St, other side of the river in the
last weeks of the war, said her
boyfriend would be coming home soon
said the bruises were almost healed, and I
joked that it was your mother’s fault
had this savior complex but none of us
ever found salvation
Christ was either
a lie or a junkie
a house on fire in the upstate desert
but we couldn’t get warm
had enough pills to
get us through the day and we
had this baby, but
not its name
not its father
a pile of anonymous bones at the
edge of town
and your mother considered it
a victory
built her house from them and
what I saw when we met
was the day you would leave
what I believe in are lesser forms
of grace and hope
my enemies consumed by
disease and despair, and
were we stoned that entire summer?
Was victory declared while we
slept on the bathroom floor?
I wanted to ask your sister
but she wasn’t
answering her phone
wanted to buy you a gift, but
you’d already left for the coast
we’d buried your father and
given the baby to your mother and
they were both growing fat
on poison
they were both erasing me
from the future
woke up alone on
the morning it finally arrived, and
knew myself to be… lost
***
John Sweet is a believer in writing as catharsis. An optimistic pessimist, he’s opposed to all organized religion and political parties. He avoids zealots and social media whenever possible. His latest collections include Approximate Wilderness (2016 Flutter Press), Bastard Faith (2017 Scars Publications), the limited edition Heathen Tongue (Kendra Steiner Editions) and A Bastard Child in the Kingdom of Nil (2018 Analog Submission Press). All pertinent facts about his life are buried somewhere in his writing.