November 4-10, 2002: John Sweet and Michael Ladanyi

week of November 4-10, 2002

John Sweet and Michael Ladanyi

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John Sweet

Bio (auto)

Living here in anywhere, upstate new york, watching the cars rust and the trailers depreciate Am 33, have been writing for 20 years, publishing in the small press for 14 Married, one son, a just-published chapbook (approaching lost) from Via Dolorosa Press, and only 26 more years to pay on the mortgage
Visit John Sweet on the web here:

The following work is Copyright © 2002, and owned by John Sweet and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsover without written permission from the author.

poem in a single breath

think of something
bigger than god

think of famine

think of war

walk into this house where
someone’s sister has
just lost her unborn child

what she wants is
to describe it to you

what she wants is the
warmth of a living body

how human are you
willing to be?

premonition of a rock through my front window

my son asleep in
the afternoon of cold rain
and a strange van driving up and down
my street

what i’ve lost
is my list of enemies

wherever i am
is always too close to the place
i’ve escaped from

a pale blue room in a collapsing house
and my hands numb beneath then
weight of flat grey light

the taste of metal or
of burning

of the flesh of ghosts and
what it’s taken me twenty years
to learn is that nothing is
ever completely safe

and what this makes me
want to
do is destroy

a vague story with implied relevance

in another town
i was a different man

i remember this

i had just lost you
or the person i thought
would end up becoming you

it was winter

dark at four in the afternoon
and all of the dogs starving
and my father still alive
but not anyone i ever spoke to

and there were rumors
of christ’s return
of course
and the first whispered stories
of rothko’s suicide

and i sat in a cluttered room
in a stranger’s house

i waited
for the phone to ring

began to forget all of
the words i’d ever invented

woke up in the morning
to the sound
of children on fire

Michael Ladanyi

Bio (auto)

I am originally from Detroit, Michigan, and now live with my wife and two daughters in the foothills of the North Georgia Mountains I am a contributing poetry editor with Rustlings of the Wind: My first poetry chapbook, Palm Shadows, was released in June 2002, by Purple Rose Publications, the creators and printers of Promise Magazine I maintain a poetry/writer resource site at: where you can also get information on obtaining his chapbook I have been writing poetry and short stories off and on for many years, seriously for the last five I began seeking publication of my work in 2001 My work has been published over forty times in the U.S , U.K Greece, India and Australia, during the last year. I have received Two Editors choice Awards and Poem of the Month Awards, from Poetic Reflections, March and April 2002 I have received two Editors Choice Awards and a Poet’s Hall of Fame Nomination, from Skyline Literary MagazineSkyline Literary Magazine, May and June 2002. My poetry has appeared in print in: Borderlands: Texas Poetry Review, The Circle, Creative Juices, Red Booth Reviews annual print edition, Skyline Literary Magazine, A Hudson View, SpinningS, Promise Magazine, The Taj Mahal Review, and Concrete Wolf My work is due to appear in print in, Snow Monkey, Summer 2002 issue and Winter 2002-2003 issue, Joey and the Black Boots, Summer 2002 issue and Winter 2002-2003 issue, and Promise Magazine, Fall 2002 issue. My work has appeared online (in some of these magazines more than once) in: Red Booth Review, The Coffee Press Journal, Some Words, AnotherSun, Half Drunk Muse, PoetryRepairShop, A Little Poetry, Aileron A Literary Journal, The Courtship of Winds, Wilmington Blues, Rustlings of the Wind, Poetic Reflections, Retort Magazine, Free Zone Quarterly, The Moonwort Review, Skyline Literary Magazine Online, ken*again, Red Booth Review, Poetry Greece, and write-away!

The following work is Copyright © 2002, and owned by Michael Ladanyi and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsover without written permission from the author.


he laid in the white and green striped
lawn chair for three days, wondering
how many pills it takes to choke a
horse, if God ate vegetable soup, if

his blue and swollen hands had
always seemed detached from his
thin wrists, if the grass had always

smelled like blood on thresholds,

stared up at him with a purple-rust
smirk he laid there for three days,

his sister wondering if he was dead,
thinking him dead, finally believing
him dead, before asking herself if
the police would question her upon
finding the body the first few days

he screamed of ants eating his skin,

laughing spiders that smoked
non-filtered cigarettes while sitting

on the bedpost i remember mom
saying that i could have my room
back soon, and figuring i could tape
my posters back together, perhaps

cover the hole in my wall with a
stereo speaker, standing outside
my locked door in the hall that
smelled like urine, wondering how

many times you die screaming
before you realize you are dead.

Thumping Silently

they are like broken concrete, these
words, like chipped, half-smiles of
lipstick smeared lovers stacked in
large and small piles of ordered

discontinuance across the blue
street, a women stands in awe of

her swollen breath, an after-summer-
storm’s teal sky leaning on her
bright-orange sundress; she wonders

if anyone sees her, taste the blood
that lingers in her wrapping mouth,
answers no to herself, hearing the
stale letters as amber sounds of

cheap wine, maybe a color that can
only be seen with the ears she walks

toward the street corner, toward flat
angles the gray of a moths rubbed
wings, a lover’s shadow, old lies i

close the shade the ceiling of my
room is water-stained, quiet like
anonymous indignation burning in
a coffeepot left on all day then i

remember that i’d meant to look at
the trees i’d noticed several yellow

leaves in the yard yesterday,
calmly scratching the ground like
dusty secrets thumping silently.

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