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MAYBE THE CUBICLE // IS ANOTHER INCARCERATION
Maybe the doors open inwards but won’t let you out
Maybe you’re counting tiles on the wall // clouds in the courtyard
Maybe you’re counting time until you see family // friends
Maybe the days becoming longer than weeks
Maybe you’re scared of his voice so you quiet yourself
Maybe you stay in line
Maybe you wake at the same time // eat at the same time // sleep when you are told
Maybe he tells you what to wear // when to speak up
Maybe you’re scared he will find this poem
So you fold it inwards
So you scuttle it beneath the table
So you show it to a friend in secret // everything is a secret
So you pick your friends cautiously
You will be out of here soon
You don’t need friends in here
You will be out and the day will be almost over but bright enough
You will be free if only for the hour
[YSL] HAUTE COUTURE
Champagne chandeliers // & bourgeois bubble-baths // in East Hampton
How did I get here // with introverted architects // discussing astrology &
Afrofuturism // my anatomy in black // leather jackets // taxidermy bats
How did I become // the citizen to protect // police in tender // militancy
They smile & wave // as if we’re friends // but we’re not // mud maggots
My uncle was arrested once // for noise complaints // my second puberty
I’m yawning for intimacy [bored at the pool party] lousy hors d'oeuvres
Police act kindly when I’m wearing Saint Laurent // products in my hair
[Pomade // comb // blow-dry // wax] // I want cologne // with its silent “g”
I like nice things // lobster rolls // swimming in an ocean of squid ink but
I’ll never be a Kennedy // while injecting witch estrogen // I realize this
My uncle delivers newspapers // loves cumbia & macaws // orange trees
The poor speak of pain // so readily // the rich pretend everything is okay
In the Hamptons // I practice authentic plagiarism // anglophonic accent
These people aren’t my friends // rich & unpopular // the academic fetish
Silicon & botox below the eyes // if you want to know whose side I’m on
I’m on the side of the poor.
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in your carpeted office you lay my life down / and say open up to that small room in my sternum.
In his new book, the former Fed chair cuts through economic orthodoxy on central banking. But he fails to reckon deeply with its political consequences.