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Survival of the glibbest;
avant-garde terrorists
refusing to be so named;
my potluck dreams adorn
a trailer park, yes
a "post-Arcadian" blankness;
waiting for the ripped
facade, the squeal of saving face
in feinting quatrains
to come ribboning down;
satellites of youth deference
abound, we feel so
bold among the cancer lovers,
but I’m finally learning to write
again, among the baobabs and sands.