I wrap each useless bauble & bright trinket in
sheaves of Emerson’s self-reliance & JSTOR print-
outs exploring the origin of American individual-
ism in all its smoke & ruggedness. That is not the
metaphor. The metaphor is how our people boil
flesh in its own blood for feast, solder guns out of
scrap metal spark, export our mothers & sisters—
to make it here, there, or any weariness itself is
total caribou shit. It is General Patton’s pipe & a
pair of fake Prada shoes.  It’s a whiff of new
money. It feeds. It is whatever the hell I say it is.
Whatever it is, it’ll need a lot more patis, ma.
Watch me go hard in this piece, ina—

all by lonesome if I have to.