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What is the role of poetry in the world that was forged this past Tuesday? What is the function of art in a country that has turned against, cannibal-like, its other half? On November 8, as I cooked my way through the day—having voting, waiting for the votes to come in—I listened to a full recording of Walt Whitman’s “Song of Myself,” and a special episode of Nate DiMeo’s Memory Palace; I stumbled upon it without...
  We arrived again. An indeterminable number of arrivals. We arrived as witness as salvation as storm. We arrived as storm as thunder as the closed sky before rainfall. We arrived as hunter as loaded rifle as the body that sharpens and strokes. What Leader took from us we scorched from our minds. Every syllable of love every uttered phrase of hope. Our pasts a city under siege a neighborhood torched. We flame throwers we bomb builders we cloaked soldiers light the...