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64 Present In All Things In New York, summers sank into us like a hot tire and winters cut deep so we’d walk arm-in-arm for a cup of warmth our faces wrapped in snow. Now I live in a seasonless city and I don’t know where I am, or how, or what month. My grandmother who’s dead is telling me stories and my sister’s saying I’m going to die young and last night I yelled at a cop in West Oakland while his partner looked on, my tremulous rage spiking the air around us with burnt cinnamon. What I mean to say is: I’m living. What I mean to say is: Sometimes I can taste my own madness and I don’t mind it, and I miss you, and I’m alive. When explaining immanence to my students I say Immanence means everything is both sacred and equal at the same time, do you know how revolutionary this is? History teaches us otherwise. History has taught you to tie a black ribbon tight around your throat and try singing and to do this every morning and call it good. Do you remember the tipping hill town we passed 65 on our drive to the coast? The one with the dusk light cut from a vein and the warm bread at midnight and a dependable land line but no hot water and no spare devices for cooling? In my dreams we arrive there and we park the car forever. Then we sit like two children at the top of a stopped Ferris wheel and tell each other everything. ...

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