after Carrie Mae Weems
Often my anger spins off and leaves
me in a tired trail of smoke. In therapy,
I list my 12 most painful memories;
13 are based on an interpretation of a text.
You can tell a lot about a person by which translation of the bible
they used to hide their erections all those Sunday mornings ago.
Gramsci: But the problem is further complicated.
Behold, you wake into two animals.
An egg cracks open to two yolks (an omen)
and another to two more (mere coincidence).
This is true up to a point.
I pass a guy on the street, and it’s like we’re walking down
two different streets—I don’t want to say he doesn’t seem normal,
but not like most people I pass on the street—and he is dancing,
and I hope he feels beautiful.
Weems: By any means necessary.
What if I write a poem in which nobody would ever be lonely again? Everything so far falls short. Listen,
there are words that exist which have not met you.
What if I write a poem with no words? No need
to be met? What if we write it together:
A veil falls off a shoulder.
A man lays down his gun.
Silence washes over the room, touching everything.
I can’t wait to tell you everything.