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He removed himself with his hands, an effort not unnoticed.
People threw shells, congotronic drumming looped
from. . .
In the polaroid in a drawer of the housethe other relatives picked over, I’m the blur in the background,
mop of silvery. . .
we are not scaling we are hunters in this drape called body we have / hardened our old selves pricked peeled consumed . . .
Martin Eden rails against the cult of individualism.
Worker dissent brews at an iconic New York bookstore.
On providing therapy for agents of state violence.