She sits there like I didn’t slap her a few seconds ago rapt in the smiling copper/mine and sniffing dust for the final bit of industry could be bartered for a night in the square with no morning. If she hadn’t died young-like all the ones she left for dead in the field or cooked into the confessions, confections, infected suns, aestheticized. If she hadn’t treated the brutalization of women like such a problem, been raped on prom night and then again and again for as long as she could count to zero. And dissolve, be solved for hollow peaches. So if I seem broken and blue. Angela Davis’ brother is the CEO of Xerox, I heard. Bitches be copying, niggas too, everything, desperately, keep this record you’re disappearing and disappointing me. I heard she’s a narc and the narcs are heroes and don’t get killed off by the artificial intelligence. It’s all lies and scorned rumors of course, everything important is by now so numb it howls in silence with Julien Priester and them and me, keep this record. . Ai the poet not the pitted plum of our trophy hunting and unintelligence, not the dead sardines that keep washing up in cans and side by side on Dr. Oz. It is in her lavish violence that we recognize the depth of our need to be loved to touch devils with feathers that unnerve them and sever the red clay of gender with knives as patient as mirrors cracking inside the flesh like wasps nests hatching as the disease you catch when you outrun everything and can’t forgive yourself this delirious and lonely beauty
