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Vegetable fuchsia but faded, gilt
gone bad from its season in Hell. Plucked up
with dirt on its cheek, petrified
as a rose shut. . .
Until I reached the paddock
where the gelding grey
collapsed, back hooves
clacking like stones to. . .
Seven months without a single dream. Seven whole months. The twenty-first of May was the last time I had a dream.
Without incisive critique or explosive insider information, the spectacle of The Price of Everything wears thin.
The American military has blocked out our nation’s ability to solve problems without the help of the Pentagon.
The Florida of the abstract joke is a worthy cipher for America’s signature blend of incompetent savagery.