Ana Božičević
Same Difference                     (page 4)

And you know, I’m just not angry anymore. I’m just saying. And I read a bunch of poems by hipsters and they are my sisters, I love those poems by all my enemies, they read like self wrote them. I don’t feel I’m different. I like riding in to work with the exhausted every day. Epic forces of snow and thaw, work and sleep, battle against the heart’s unions. In one country I could be killed for the queerness, in another for wearing pants, in another for hair. Here I am white, even though I say “the” like “da.” The same bus driver who picked me up late at night drives me to my early train. At least we still both have jobs. I feel capitalism like a fever and I feel the fatigue of its constituents and I remember the blue islands in a dream of commies. I stop putting animals in poems, all but birds. The birds are forever. And I don’t worry about the zeitgeist no more: there’s a whole world of husbands with soft moustaching, noting with due diligence every bird-leg structure down: the inventors of Facebooks. And gated listservs. No-husband passes through boy-husband like a doubt. O rule in your chains, then fade—

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