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I lived in a tree house with four dogs.
Sold drugs in Montana. What
was there then? The heat
on the grass and the smell of it,
sour chokecherries, and tiny wild
strawberries, and rhubarb
growing under the lilacs. Trains
have almost killed me three times.
Once in the winter in the frozen
fishpond you could still see flashes of gold
under the ice. Someone had forgotten
to remove the carp. Then again, I’ve
never been to Greece, Rome, Gay Purree.
My ventures have been somewhat limited.
As a child I found a red glass necklace in
the sand. I thought it was buried treasure,
but I never found out what the world was.
I love Osage oranges with their big warts
and old tin trunks with travel stickers. I
heard of an island that sank under
the weight of its tourists. Always
wondered what the real story was.
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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.
Our well-being depends on a better understanding of how the logic of labor has twisted our relationship with pleasure.