July 2006/Volume Seven/Issue Two
John Sweet
like sugar for the blood

cold yellow light on a sunday afternoon
and i apologize for nothing

i have no use for
burroughs or bukowski

edie is dead
and andrea
and all of your patron saints are
nowhere to be found

none of your cities
were ever meant to last forever

and i am tired of being hungry and i am
tired of being lost
but all of these houses look the same

all of these roads end without warning
at cemeteries or abandoned factories or
rivers with indian names in this land
where there are no indians and the
girl didn't jump she fell

four stories and drunk and left her
three year old daughter with nothing
but a missing father

the pacific was only a dream

3000 light years away and
when i stand in the shadow of this bridge
i have nothing of my own

when i pick up my son he cries

we are always on
the verge of being lost