fits around the black experience like OJ's sad glove on display at a covetous museum, a sudden archive of tender leather on ice and light while Someday My Prince Will Come plays from an old phonograph. Two immaculate glass cases. A single tear so trite it's real. Thank you Fred Wilson. Thank you everyone who stops to watch us spin on ice and light. Industry, we win. And you're the rip in the glove, the vandal, the dull clamor of guilt, and unguilt as they dance for the brass knuckle of kill in the goal that tingles when you blink and fills the soul with bloody love, careless love, unsurrendered except where the stuff we don't talk about it is what we're made of so shhhhhhhhhh keep something for yourself maybe, or what's the difference between the self and the other? I'm man and my life has value, screamed into mute and spare It made such a true lie, it made him more beautiful, it shaped his mind to die and divide into revival/amen corners of mine that let me climb into the night like space suits, like clubs, hearts, kings, spades too, and american flag stencils traced through my pupils like cartoon dollar brands ironed onto the steeple and peeling the land green. But Why? Since all things are living spirits trapped by their own misdirected will in the round of rebirth in the ever-revolving vortex of this world. What else? the gloaming mingled with— What else? Forgetting makes it last
