Don't cross me. Or at least if you cross me, take pictures. Or at least if you cross me, cross me backwards. Flow upstream into my rank intestines. Snap photos and videos the whole time. This would be the colon. An ultimate expression of dirty, messy privilege. Or is this the rectum. And the fetid stream of dank and dirt. A tidal pool of waste. One of the tourists was one of the crossers and he accidentally dropped a water bottle in the brown liquid and left it there, hurrying off into the culvert. The weather balloon launched to take photos every fifteen minutes from the air, but quickly wrapped around a surveillance tower. No, it wasn't a water bottle, it was a bottle of grape-flavored clear liquid. The Mexican migra pronounced my name correctly. Pluker. Could we respell all words to make them more phonetical in all languages. What would phonetical mean in all languages. When you die, everyone agrees you should head into the light. The light represents the better place, the heaven. The performative moment that captured the imagination of the news stream. We massed in neat lines, organized by the alphabet, ordered by our first names. James, Jen, Jen, Jennifer, John, Josh, Julie. The J's. The discomfort of privilege. The grasping of it. The impossibility of losing it. The constancy with which we mourn privilege. The challenge to it. Feathery cobwebs in the corners. A medium-size carapaced beetle wandering between our feet. Does physicality accomplish anything in the end. How do we dress up the disaster, ready it for the party, fund its every need, nourish its every whim. On the other side, in the light, a tiny campsite. I love you, the teddy bear's stomach says.

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