Maxwell Can’t Read Most Days

“Your perceptions,
Like rays of sunlight, emanating
From a great central contemplation,
Pierce every fallacy.—And yet
You say you had no education?”
—Herr Von Eberkopf to Peer Gynt, Henrik Isben, Peer Gynt

Most days I cannot read and no one can take that away from me.
“But if you don’t read, how can you write?” Because I am a child
Or dumb—who gives a fuck. I hadn’t read one thing
About me until I wrote it: characters didn’t feel terrible enough; no one
Was feral and wild or swearing at librarians
Because no one made art a solace for us: we just acted
Like cunts. Now when I read some poets

They make cuntery OK. Maybe I felt judged
By the wrong people—who knows: it’s like something else
Didn’t want me in the library or someone else
Didn’t want me expressing myself or like
It’s all nothing to do with intelligence or effort
Or being well read, like dumb rats
Can do it too? And who called me a dumb rat? Me. “So why can’t you read most days?” You.

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