We are a cramp nation. Involuntary, restrictive, a tool.
Our periods, collectively, are politically vogue
as gender representation reflects without liberation.
We process its reclamation as speculative transmissions.
Even the clouds,
and now their patterns,
wander lost.
The simplest narratives are stored in the bends of our flesh.
Rancor its own habitual expression, a saturation of cultural static,
transfigurations of competitive positivity, a sharing economy.
Angela Davis said the political reproduces itself through the personal.
How far does your radiance reach?
