Beginnings, Intention, and Method ( A poem for happy black men who pretend to be you)

He contemplates the famous suicides like dice ride across a juvenile desk, maybe desperation but more likely vanity or fear of change and love of change and the way the word rampant always comes up in a tantrum about too much or never enough of a man. Then he loops the songs that are better than his own into a pool of longing just like his own and it isn't wrong to bleed but it isn't when either, he moans, a coarse and unknown volition to make any sound and be alone with it, choking down another lightsource like feminine type of going rogue I think it's called, hope I know it's a silent science but it never contemplates death for sympathy, it could never be that selfish or misled by itself. I've never met another black man more afraid of answering his own questions or more capable, maybe, maybe so. I've met so many lately and Edward Said, because we must deal with the unknown, traps it in the kind of thinking that feels like dreams and wishbone cracking just right to home, the foment of a field of fraying puzzles possessed by the will for completion until their very joining is tragic and clumsy cards falling out of a shady dealer's hand. I didn't have to be taught to panic when everything gets too calm, it just comes naturally like in the dream in which I saw his hands his hands were white, he had turned into a white man, when he looked in the mirror his hands were still black. Illusions are never that mysterious, the tension between the thing you know and thing you believe, so subtle it bleeds all over the truth. Finally, when there is no glamor and no gun in the contemplation, when the story is all in the eyes and in the art like a sad child who still knows how to play though, if you ask right— life is so easy, that's what makes it hard