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To the fence
Comes a mass—muscle.
Evening falling red
Unto purple fields,
Of black trees, from blue roads.
Symbol of your own death,
Walk together in your parts :
Veil of flies over
Slave of kings and broken men.
For some other’s sake,
To make a new self of
The self. In orange burning out,
A contrail, a comet.
In the blue become black,
A train glides on wheat.
How am I you, and you, me?
In the paddock of the moon,
In his glowing house,
Your owner loads his rifle.
I gave you oats from my pocket,
You give me a door in the field.
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Draconian individual punishment distracts from systemic change and reinforces the cruelest and most racist system of incarceration on the planet.
Our well-being depends on a better understanding of how the logic of labor has twisted our relationship with pleasure.
“I was my father’s son. My father was Nai Nai’s least favorite.” A Taiwanese American man, driven from home by a secret, reevaluates his childhood memories of his grandmother.