Better an obsolete constellation
than to never have burned
lost in the numb confederacy
the candidates, out their blow holes,
call freedom. I lift my own gift
economy on this urge that rises
goddess up from the perineum
a nutrient manifesting as enthusiasm
but only in a way a crab would recognize,
sideways. Sidereal. The line in the sky
goes from Fa Tsang to William Blake
to Whitman, then Whitehead & Williams
you look Puerto Rican she said, but no
his Cuban mother loving the way he cursed
like an uncle lleno hasta el borde de ron.


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