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The beach full of puddles makes the ocean look bigger.
Guilty. The signs posted are turned the other way.
Colors confer. The cloudy eyes of a fish blur and green
while a horsefly rides a red plastic cup. This doesn’t happen
so much as seems newly painted. I subtract the color
from the studio walls. I hold a centerfold sideways
until it is taken by the wind. I guess it’s only fair: another
wave and another wave pranks the beach. The sun
is a killer. Any star, before it can come out, must be
a separate thing from ourselves. If I had a wish: a far castle,
a chain of lights just now turned on, forget it. Picture this
life. I am reminded of you because I seek a rider’s
finality. Language has but one god who made
me slow. What I confess I confess in my echo.
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In his new book, philosopher William MacAskill implies that humanity’s long-term survival matters more than preventing short-term suffering and death. His arguments are shaky.
In her new book, Danish poet Olga Ravn writes with open love, pity, and compassion for her strange yet familiar creations.
Draconian individual punishment distracts from systemic change and reinforces the cruelest and most racist system of incarceration on the planet.