the epigraph’s of Ferlinghetti’s book Poetry as Insurgent Art read as


The woods of Arcardy are dead,

and over is their antique joy;

Of old the world on dreaming fed;

Grey truth is now her painted toy…

                                  -William Butler Yeats


What times are these

when to write a poem about love 

is almost a crime

Because it contains

So many silences

About so many horrors…

                             – After Bertolt Brecht


We apologize for the inconvenience,

But this is a revoltuion.”

                       –  Subcomandante Marcos


Mine reads as,


Is this where I place my

own epigraph?

My eulogy?

Is this where I fall madly

in love with a sycamore


Burn this booklet,

make me stronger.

Pin me to the chest,

Oh, Trans America.

Fuck my daughters, just

just don’t burn Rome.

The agentic revolution

will be televised.


Buy your own copy and mark it as you see fit, my dear poets.





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