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Occasionally a god speaks to you,
rutted tollway a flint knife breaching
gutted fields hung on event
horizon, clear cut contradiction
through soy beans and sheared corn: blue
pickup an orange blaze, white letters
blistered, boiling down to tarmac,
asphalt, sulfur fume cured by a chemical
plant burn-off pipe, blue flame chipped
with white raising a buttress of weather
-burnt bricks, flaking wind
totem. We stopped to take some cargo
on, weighted October with a freight
of waiting snow traveling east, panic of
starlings startled from stubble husks
by harvest moon dangled directly
ahead: drove into the pitted sphere, bloody
pearl punched in a sky just out of reach
(vanishing point retreating, peeling),
one of the yellowed streetlights
by now, dimming, diminishing. The road
says to perspective, wait.
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In his new book, philosopher William MacAskill appears to value humanity’s long-term survival far more than preventing short-term suffering and death.
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.