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when his fork clinks against the breakfast plate,
my day is lit by a covetous rage, a fist swollen with
my man was committed
to an asylum as a child
wild thing fungal
thought. . .
After the snakebite, I tried to make noises
With the clouds in my throat, the dissolving
Snow of my. . .
Reading history is one way to find clarity in the present political hell.
When protest masquerades as art? The result is Hannah Gadsby’s Nanette.
It turns out that sleep is a highly marketable product.