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Down to the rialto. Not a cloud in the sky.
I’m hosting a flashover, right here in my head.
I’m setting all the puppeteers to dancing.
And this time, there’s no current in my chair.
In the workshed I’m making a dead civilization.
The fibers full of volts–it’s my best suit.
In my dreams I run from tree to tree.
All the gods on this plain are capacitors.
I’m taking Aesop as my nom de guerre.
I am telling the story. I am full of light.
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Both regulators and employers have embraced new technologies for on-the-job monitoring, turning a blind eye to unjust working conditions.
But I do miss the hymns, / the small, hard apples with their dimpled skin. I do miss / things.
The vast hinterlands of the Global South’s cities are generating new solidarities and ideas of what counts as a life worth living.