I Am Black, but Maybe I Am Doomed.

This is cavy reading to grief atthe 20 21 sexus ena storm. I don't know where to place this grief, this sweltering state and freezing politicians breezing over to a country that doesn't have tissue choked out by its winter yet. The absence of snow feels like betrayal. If i made art about every pain i felt unjustly, i would be swimming an accelate for great american books. With all this frost bite on my fingers, i am not sure if i can tip. America is the worst screw project i'm writing. A great american poem about suffering. How much is going without food that isn't camp for a week worth?