I listen to the record,
Live concert in Central
Park, and think how easy
It is to accidentally be part
Of someone else’s memory
Or someone else’s physical
Record of important anything—
I know because my existence
Can’t be erased from hospital
Waiting rooms with wheelchairs,
Raisinettes, and imperfect imaginings.
Someone cheers inappropriately.
On a CD of our orchestra I mutter
Audibly under my breath.
I don’t mind my imprint on recorded
Evidence of one of many not able
To stop or help or say anything
Loudly because it would turn against
Speaker. I don’t trust the Speakers
Of Poems because they are all
Liars.
Do
You
Have
Power?
Yes
You
Have
Power.
So use it.
About the Creator
Joe Nasta
Hi! I'm a queer multimodal artist writing love poems in Seattle, one half of the art and poetry collective Eat Yr Manhood, and head curator of Stone Pacific Zine. Work in The Rumpus, Occulum, Peach Mag, dream boy book club, and others. :P
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