Or fairies, which is it to be,
And what will your decision mean?
Another day among letters
Specified by neurons and code,
Everyone recycling splendors.
We’ve got handsome Englishmen fixed
On reanimation projects
For Beowulf or Gilgamesh,
And we’ve got marginal poets
Posting prose essays about poems
As selfless, underpaid service
Labor in this brutal era
Of racial capitalism
(Late racial capitalism—
Capitalism must be late—
No one dares speak the fear aloud,
It might have a lot of rope left
And could snake on all day night—
It could you know, and it just might!).
Can you even tell porcupine
From dog in all the rolling mess?
Who’s cool Fey, whose false Aliens?
Better to be Leopoldo
Dreaming of writing about it,
But only to read and dream more.
No one wants to choose the cynic
Or pointed misanthropic foil.
No one roots for strange invasions
Or such supernatural mayhems
As cut no moral ice with them.
Everyone only wants to win
Over opinions ought to win.
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