THE ALCHEMIST, GRASPING FOR MEANING
by John Sweet
incantation for the refused
the rumor of your death or
the lie that is your life
both
maybe
and at the same time
sunlight and famine and
unpaid bills
the news of war
which is how we define both
the past and the future
a false king and a blind prophet
and the vast emptiness between them
where cities used to stand
have you forgotten
how to cast a shadow?
are you a failed poet just
waiting for the moment when you
can become a forgotten suicide?
look
anthems are for fools and guns for cowards
refusal is the key
no masters
no slaves
nothing more holy than yourself
let the whores who would
buy and sell you
devour their own kind or
let them starve
let them be the corpses we
wrap in flags to burn
everything is wrong and it’s all someone else’s fault
a pale white sun in a silver sky and
all of the emptiness where
everything that hides
hides in plain sight
all of your father’s despair and
all of his self-pity,
which is what he left you when he died
had a smile on his face when you
found the body, but that
might’ve just been the drugs
might’ve just been the simple joy
of floating up above the pain
no harm
i am tired of writing letters to
the teenage suicide i used to be
i am tired of the
almost-sunlight
the sense of loss
who is it that builds a
town in nothing but shades of grey?
who is it that builds the workers’ houses
in the poisoned shadows of factories?
consider democracy
consider nihilism
only one of them can
exist without the other
only a kingdom of fools would
believe in
their own infallibility
a milkwhite god
a manifest destiny
find the point where all of your
most deeply held lies converge
and place your headstone there
the alchemist, grasping for meaning
all days lost, all
minutes, all hours
tell her this and then
close the door,
or maybe say nothing
write it down instead,
black ink on a grey afternoon,
and then pull the trigger
wait for the
sound of laughter
what else have you
got but time?
or your death, which is invented at your birth
man with the gun says
there need to be changes,
but he’s just as dead the rest of us
he’s high on the fumes
of burning children
he’s trapped in the shadows
of his father’s fists
a slave and a whore,
but fuck it
no one comes to this town to
live up to their fullest potential
no one talks about better days
until there’s hope of them
ever arriving
you learn this early, and then
it just seems like something
you’ve always known
About the Author:
John Sweet sends greetings from the rural wastelands of upstate NY. He is a firm believer in writing as catharsis, and in the continuous search for an unattainable and constantly evolving absolute truth. His latest poetry collections include HEATHEN TONGUE (2018 Kendra Steiner Editions) and A FLAG ON FIRE IS A SONG OF HOPE (2019 Scars Publications).
