Dear Corporation,

                     Dream at night always
of your loved ones in danger. Wake
tangled in the gauze of your sheets.
Draw yourself a hot bath. Unhood
the windows. It’s becoming harder
and harder to tell whether the motion
detector has been triggered or it’s already
morning. Try to practice your breathing.
Let the day open up to you with the hiss
of automated doors. Find something
in the near distance to look forward to.
Hold on. Even if the boot is crushing
your fingers. Hold on. It’s not the fullforced
crush of anxiety that makes your
legs do that aching thing, that tenderizer
thing, that feral, fidgeting thing. It’s
the protocol, the tools of the trade, the
glare of the moneybright capitol. Fuck
protocol. Fuck the tools of the trade.
Fuck the lone animal bullshit, the
survival of the fittest. Fuck the lions in
the millions, the billions, the abasement
and ache of the blindly entitled. Distrust
the unconflicted, the unaccountable, the
unworried, the unwounded. Distrust
your own impulse to leave your love in
the ruins. Your pain is not the only pain,
not the worst pain. Your guilt is not the
only guilt, not the worst guilt. If the
cop says the thirty-year-old musician he
shot dead on your block was drunk, was
belligerent, was reaching for the gun,
be immortally suspicious. Pay closest
attention to who shifts the wind. Always
wonder what exactly is burning so close
on the air. Smoke, now ghost-smoke,
now gone. Listen everywhere, to every
one, always. Make reckless, bloodbright
basement music. Make blackout bedroom
make-out noise. Make language like
nosebleeds and rug burns and snakebites
and shiners. Language like warm hands
on warm chests, between warm legs. Fail
ardently. Fail gloriously. Fail over and
over and over again.