Thou must of necessity live, unto something. The resident post-colonial critic said of adjunct labor, “we are not a charity.” One writer wishes he could afford to teach more. Works in a grocery, where the story is, “what is your story?” A physicist and a refugee carry pallets of milk at 4 a.m. toward health care at three months. Precarity sounds like teeth, like teeth falling out, like English teeth in the teeth of an election loss. We take our clichés back to their root, their rotten link to capital's jaw. Marx's beard, also, carried fecal matter. I found his grave among those of men and women who “fell asleep” in that century. The root is literalism, not liberalism, the teeth that were teeth before we yanked them with dental floss attached to javelin or a father's hand. Precarious hours, punched-in at the clock, tick tock cavities; when your tooth falls out, savor the hole in your gums. It allows your mouth flexibility, this absence of incisors. Cut your teeth on it. By the waters of Leman sit down and start knitting.
--8 May 2015