Avalon
in the megachurch i’m welcomed by a set of petty puffed up lips and the east european charm of someone i know’s old nose they cavort and capitulate words i only vaguely know the meaning of like the french rap i listen to everyday that i pretend to know – touche pas! don’t touch! victory, victoire! – students on the steps of republic palace a set of auto-tuned Africans with pretty lips people like to imitate a useless poet with nothing to say