The One Where Ross Is A Genocide
The One Where Ross Is A Genocide 

Michigan’s my hipster
in buffalo treehopper sunglasses
and skintight eastern white pine.
—What can be done with my citadel?
she says, and
—What about my infinite folds 
that inflect all my time?
She’s a superject, you know,
perfected in the attic, 
the armārium,
the charnel house,
drawing leibnizian souls
and picking a knothole 
while reading Foucault.
Then, the bones come to life downstairs
and those matters of fact 
turn the thumbscrews a whorl
and she knows how it works,
a trillion times how it works, 
a trillion steelworks 
from Lenawee to Keweenaw;
and, across her middle 
a belt of troubadours play the numbers
—all the hits—
made of Potawatomi penologies,
of three fires ghost dances, 
of yoopers,
of moiety marriages,
of Dwarf Lake Irises 
and their complicated traps.
—There you go!
She says, and drinks to the drumbeat 
of whatever thought we were thinking before.
A thumbtack in my pee hole is an expression of liberty but at the price of a Big Mac...exquisite excrement good sir

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