Sublime

all identity is in part myth, the kind that we can use to sort out living, for better or worse, depending upon its uses.

Those categories which were meant to define and control the world for us have boomeranged us into chaos; in which limbo we whirl, clutching the straws of our definitions.

The mind is in a dayless freak zone, surfing earth’s hurtling horizon.

I’ll hold all your terrific ugly.

They kept echoing off the walls of all my hidden hurts.

I was pulled deeper into the current of language.

These youth are born into environments of state-sanctioned deprivation, or “organized abandonment,” as political geographer Ruth Wilson Gilmore calls it.

people as the problem, instead of the policies that ensnare them.

a semidiasporic postcolonial indeterminate like me