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I looked for it in the afterlight lapping the edge
of the long valley. I sought it in canopy, in the horizon’s
fringe, past. . .
when his fork clinks against the breakfast plate,
my day is lit by a covetous rage, a fist swollen with
Aim behind the ear. Point blank is a mercy.
If this were sacred, we’d let it run freely as it dies.
Western intervention may ultimately contain the latest Ebola outbreak in the DRC. But at what cost?
High Life embraces the beauty, terror, and shit of material existence.
The long afterlife of Valerie Solanas