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Demagogue Money

I cannot bear pigs.

    Sensational pig and his 

        black foods stomp to some top.


False sonatas spit raging.

    The chatter of our troubles is an aspect 

        of breath, glass pulled from fire, 


the wool of our ensemble.

    I cannot bear time.

        In the each other 


there is this desperate we 

    crying down and across 

        each other, getting older.


Getting closer is the room behind 

    the door before the door 

        to it gets worse.


There is a moment 

    I cannot bear law and its 

        hot white golden rattles.


On the street we hiss.

    On the street we blare.

        In white directions 


America is expensive. On the street 

    we eat. Its malnourished sermon 

        the cabinet of our chains.

This poem is supported in part by the National Endowment for the Arts.

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