As in: now. The means to survive have been transferred to your bank account. The banks have been dissolved. No trickling but a deluge of red, like French streets in 1789; Haiti 1791, the Commune 1871, Catalunya 1936. And I’ll admit it: I’m classist, I think what Mao did to the landlords was pretty fucking cool. // I am brought to the end of a river and asked where it went. I tell my interlocutors to look in the stomachs of our landlords, to watch it stream from their bodies as the masses ruthlessly reappropriate. Delete me // from this. And on the other side of the wall there was healthcare. They broke into his house and shot him. Students filtered through academia magnetizing debt. She was murdered for quote “tricking him” unquote. I blast the music on my commute in order to remove myself from the landscape, to keep this body from merging with it. Your disk space is almost full. Apparently I was most gay when I was 13, I could tell because suddenly // my name was Faggot. And then again isn’t that all we want: to loafe in a field and write an epithalamium for our bodies merging with the landscape. Don’t we all want to be Sappho writing to our imaginary girlfriends across the room. Don’t we all want to sever the landlord’s many tentacular limbs and pocket the coins from his defeated corpse // the defeated cops. Another morning I look into the mirror and shave my face. God dammit. I’m sick of writing poems begging for you people to get up and do something. I need insurance.