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Sex it sells and sold me sideways, Devil
me care, the last crass
crawling inappropriate school-girl crush—
a gas in the vernacular note. Li’l
boy drawn balding & big-eyed Charlie Brown.
How he wah-wah-wah
wondered: will you go with me, check / yes- wah:
maybe yes- wah / please don’t check no. Alone,
he left me all alone. He sucks, I don’t
like him, I don’t like
too tall / four square, small / steps & tree / tops, like
Will or, tag / -you’re-it, Roy / Rogers. I want
to love him / do, and God, it’s me, Stacy.
Do you hear me? Third grade, last week, thirty.
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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.