No placid air. All kinds of plastic hair. The storm is swelling on the sidewalk brushing everything inside and sweeping us along. We don't think consciously about death but sure we all feel it coming. No lights to dazzle no dancing as if we could breathe. Suffocated by a heavy cloud of yearning and anger and madness tears and slapping. Weighed down into a long trough of once white tiles this sweat and stink is pressed out of our insides and streams down the walls and into the sewer system. All of us ends up in the sewer system after a brief pitstop on dancefloors. Despite the name this is no garden and there is no white cross. We saw our first phenotypic foreigner tonight and paid him no mind as we all are foreigners honestly. None of us is native. How would we begin to count the foreigners. Piss and blonde hair and jutting bands of fat and groping tight T-shirts and delicate gestures and chancing upon a vagabond in a corner and eyes blazing with attitude and eyes stunted by their own lucid visioning and eyes startled by the brown skin and foundation and powder and jackknifing mohawks and spikes. Somehow this jackhammered floor and rivulets of soily sweat and meandering streams of urine and alcohol and neon fabrics glistening and torn. All of this seems closer to justice than any policy paper or legal decision or manifesto or political poem. Let's not write a political poem about Mexican transvestites. Let's not write political poems about steel-shouldered migrants just off the bus from Honduras. Let's not write political poems about those others because honestly the lines are not tenable. The battle lines are not defendable and the trenches were not dug deep enough. With no lines all this risks being a mess and I can accept that just like we accept grinning long-legged teenagers in short skirts with ancient balding four-eyed trolls and the air coolers stuck in the walls recirculating our evaporated drool and grimy liquidity mixing in the exterior evaporated drool and grimy liquidity. These walls are cliff faces sheer vertical barriers and the police stalk the perimeter. Tattered T-shirts and gum wrappers with first names and phone numbers scribbled in eyeliner. The guy was ready to sleep with whomever most likely he needed the cash. Honestly all these juicy details make a good adventure story. But let's not write a political story about Zapotec mariachi drag queen divas in rainbow-colored sarapes. Let's not write a political story about the women in short shorts and wifebeaters dragged up into the back of police pickups. Let's not write a political story about our friends with STD's who we sleep with anyway. Later after the limelight and the calls for another round and another song and after haranguing each other take care and then above the steaming streets above the towering pillars of transportation above the squat concrete facades of this blighted district the reddening rays of first dawn illuminate us as we meander on sidwalks stumbling and murmuring our goodbyes. Justice you told me is not larger than our joy no more important and much less foreseeable.

(This is a reprint from the Catalogue of Feeling.)

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