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Hi, power, who a hippo were, rough & river-
rocky horse & now (early spring & swollen) cow- brown, with a will’s way over me upside-down.
I queried a willow: wisp, what will a power allow
me of my clamor, whistle of a chilly little
bird misundervoiced so pitifully? Poor bird,
advice, advicious. Power’s will not mine that I’d
in any likelihood enlist. Down-headed twit, in all humility,
power too blameless to bother a flick-feather about.
Hello, lower power, plow-prowler, what will you
want of me now that I’ve ill-gotten again?
Flower follower, under the plucky petals of love
before & after the love-not, worm I admire,
mouthy gut, processor, earth-passager? O just admit
me once to your dearest & most confidential ear.
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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.