Jack Meriwether

(b. 1992)
is a poet and performance artist from Ohio currently living in Brooklyn, New York.

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I can't wait to see you



What are we going to talk about when we meet?

I already can see day reflecting in your eyes

As we sit in the garden

And put it all down before us

The afternoon’s annoyances

Along with the salad

And the tabbouleh

It is like that sometimes

Everything laid on cloth

The plain terribleness of life so clean

Like crumbs

How are you doing?

I am precisely the same!

I can’t wait to see you!

Yesterday I saw a boy in a gallery

Who was more like a ghost

This was on twenty fifth street

They and another intern sat behind a massive desk like cherubim

I asked then directions to another gallery

And we locked eyes briefly

Perhaps long enough to transact some memory in them

See, my brother used to know this ghost

Used to speak to them through other channels

But no longer

Well it’s like the beginning and the end

Feed into each other so indiscriminately

And we are caught

In the voracious middle somewhere

Making chic the act of being devoured

There were so many things to see and no time

I took lavender truvada bubble tea at five pm

It went down sugar and bespoke

They make this urban space into a sort of boutique style of living

And call it a marketplace

What are you up to?

I can’t stop thinking about your jawline and lashes

This is a love letter

You should not read it to your friends

What time is it in Paris?

I need to know how to think of you

What garments you might be slipping into

Who you are meeting and where

Here in New York I am dirty and alive

But you know what

At this red-lit bar earlier we ate a large order of frites

It was greasy and nice

And I had this thought

That maybe the source of all my anxiety

And mental squabble

Is not knowing how someone thinks of me

Isn’t that horrible?

To want so doggedly to be “liked”

To even lose sleep over it

That I would go so far as to augment some section

Of my personhood

Just to be fuckable, passable, whatever

I mean the older I get the sexier I feel

But still it feels like filling in the blanks a lot

Like a sexual mad lib

Can you imagine

Trying to be something you want

Knowing that’s a pretty shallow lake to dive into

Knowing we are all fake and real

And trying to be someone’s sexy thing

Someone’s good evening

Well sometimes dick can heal me

And sometimes it’s just getting paid

I once fucked the really beautiful son of an opera singer

Who had a really bomb dick

He told me about growing up near Lincoln Center

And seeing his beautiful mother singing on stage

And I rode on top of him

And he took a picture of my tattoo while inside me

Then flipped me around and finished me so good

I walked home caffeinated, marveling at the decaying city

The way beauty can enter you like that and it’s communion

And there’s democracy in it entering you

Because beauty belongs to all of us

When they start taking that away

That’s when you know it’s bad

The president is having a meltdown

And it’s precarious

In so many parts of the country, it’s not beautiful

A train is coming

And what happens to the New Yorkers without homes when they die?

Life is so short and yet just keeps going

We are all just naked hearts standing and staring

Something about their sleeping body

Holds my gaze urgently like looking at something true and unavoidable

Like they hold all the problems and solutions of the world

Of our society, whatever

And it’s not even impressive

It’s just music to me, something to discern

I just keep going, keep living

I paid my rent eleven days late this month

I think I am ready to be fallen in love with