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From the kitchens where the gas is kept / beloved are the blues shining my shoulder / old potholes . . .
Seven months without a single dream. Seven whole months. The twenty-first of May was the last time I had a dream.
It feels sadder when a black person says Nigga
Because it sounds like Nigger. It feels sadder
When a brother or. . .
Pain is the ultimate antidote to mind-body dualism.
Raised in the 1990s, I have a soft spot for the exercise tape aesthetic: upbeat motivational speech, house music, and B-movie production values all mashed together.
Kenneth Anger’s Invocation of My Demon Brother, fifty years on.