now it dissolves into it’s erratic and inevitable self. it stands
for all to witness, this thing that has crept through us for years
like a demon. this thing that never lets go,
a virus with no cure, an immunodeficiency of our collective hearts.

there in a street, in the void, a beautiful fire burning,
trying to scald the awful thing away, trying
to melt it, trying to purge it, to exorcise our culture,
to cleanse our unwashed hands.

if we could possibly advance, if we could rid
ourselves of this excess, this evil, how can we imagine
we could do that without an upheaval, a violent puking of the inner filth
that thing is.

this pain: standing over there, on a broken corner, waltzing with the
shards of empowerment. this
process: a cultural breathing, the contractions and expansions of
change. the projectile in the air:

these are the years of the drone. be careful, tread lightly
when you step on that flag, as you re-imagine it to finally