But a Storm is Blowing From Paradise

In the Democracy of Goods,

20 In the Democracy of Goods, there is no equal & I am a candidate for closure: my hand is down in my Full Moon Saloon, a coin thrust in the potter’s wheel where the jukebox is the most complex woman around where nine in ten women do not pad the other side of the bed, or put the eggs & milk on credit —my camera, my magic box of accident, duplicates the real that is not real enough: nine in ten women know the exact name of the pill they are taking 21 & all women keep track of their jukebox growth— I know it goes against so much that I touch myself bring up fluids demand that you look —open the shutter long enough and light swoops become naked bodies in the corn pits. ...