There is no political component to being devoured

one might consider the people, now,
surrounded, languaging on the inside,
like everybody's really into language
lately. i'm out for lunch
and back, a construction paper cut-
out of Leroi Jones.

damn it feels good to be a product of men in prisms, 
hands of bomb-throwers, financial 
terrorists, laughter
pains of minds less moderate,
a testimony to the experience of men-made "soft"
by ghetto swagger dreams of our own.

there are accent marks on my insides
languishing, a dreaded construction
cut up, like everybody's in too
much of a good thing and our lives
got split into communities surrounding the outside world,
mirroring sound.

and so (x2) i'm gutted by Leroi Jones
going away, and into
deeply. quiet! there is a sudden
surge in contention,

from the start.

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