The Ramingo’s Porch – “Poems in two directions” and other works by John Sweet

Ramingo Unknown Author's Immage

poem in two directions

45 years and i’m still
not sure if it’s hope or despair,
these low flat roofs, this endless
expanse of luminous blue sky

anonymous buildings
surrounded by well-manicured
lawns and that i have these
memories of you which do
nothing but cause pain

fields of clover and goldenrod

the shade of oak trees
at the cemetery’s edge

take away the value of love
in any given situation
and you’re left with nothing



in the silence of well-
manicured lawns sometime after the
impossible arrival of summer

bees drunk on clover

moments of shame measured
against moments of sorrow

are you getting this?

the past has no need for the future

these ideas of wealth that have little or
nothing to do with money are
the ones that matter

still though
you lie awake at night
worrying about unpaid bills

you sleep in your car in the
walmart parking lot waiting for your
lover but she never arrives

your children break open at
the slightest touch

they keep trying to make you happy
but all you know how to do anymore
——————————————is scream



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


hour of the ascension

They said it was a joke, having
nailed his naked body to the fence,
having chained him to the back of
the truck. Drove through town on
Easter Sunday in their finest clothes.
Shot the soldier while he slept, cut
off his feet with an axe, burned his
body in the village square. Said the
war had to end, and then the
firebombing began. The face of
God was everywhere. Fucker just
laughed and laughed.


mission statement

says prove you have hope but
is that even the point?

am i here?

are the clocks all moving forward?

and what i do is smile into
his smile
or maybe just bare my teeth

what i say is
prove me wrong

make me a liar

and what we all swim in is an
ocean of blood is and
how the game works is simple

all of us are born but
only some of us live

all of us jump but
only some of us fly

only some of us get to
burn our wings on the sun


John Sweet said about himself: “Things here seem to be calm for a change, so no complaints. Latest limited edition chapbooks, A BASTARD CHILD IN THE KINGDOM OF NIL and HEATHEN TONGUE, have both sold out. Might be something being published in more substantial numbers later this year, we’ll see.

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