value is not

a        number

or a stock market

value is a body

a mess. matters only

when broken flesh is pressed

together in the name of

trying. what is still valuable

in a world that made land

a funeral home and pulled

out all the Indigenous people

out of their peace to remind them

they can't even have their own

death. where is winning in

gentrified souls. Black people are

dying as fast as each cortado shot is

pulled. we call it a myth. even

anti-racism is trendy


what you cannot sell us: tea made by mommy thumbs. a rove of belonging. tragedy. a

citrus skinned body. a family translucent from borders. a grief given by earth’s amygdala.

grief but sure whose, though. maybe a dead gay granny you never met.  or your 3 year old marble

cheek self. or a curvature the gun made. carved by a government we trust. a

freedom pieced together by hands bonded n blistered meta-bumped it burns

if i could see my white settler colonial steal lineage

i would send them a doodle to organize

a workshop. start w a grounding

exercise so they could feel their calluses and cry

whatever prolonged weather they have been holding

onto. shame, isn’t it bb? we would read Lee Maracle and Frantz

Fanon and they wouldn’t leave the workshop

until they pooled their money and anecdotal secrets about

everything they stole and then we would touch the wound

that made their whiteness torch the world like that and we would

eat seasoned food and close by chanting



when the market dies

i will piss all over your usb sticks

and bitcoin accounts and data dicks

and stocks and whatever other things you

download money on

and we’ll just



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