Paul Buchheit

Editor back-issues, poetry

Slave Boy   We run as if an agitated earth were breaking up behind us, and we fight to gain our stations at the gritty trough half-filled with corn, where each survivor’s worth is daily measured by another’s right to fair apportionment denied; and off our makeshift plates of muddied, calloused hands ensues a squealing angry vulgar rush to suck…

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