i can see mouths gagged on the print of plastic packaging. black light reveals blood smears under the ink of stamped prices.

i open the bag; it smells like august, clean sheets dirtied with mud and sweat. it inserts imagery aggressively into my mind. arched backs breaking under the burden of moans and underpaid workers. rain forests, cash crops, drug cartels, and foreign romance languages cheapened by new world thuggery.

the similitude of citrus and coffee beans, sugar cane and cocaine, it all bisects the line of overt legalities and subtle government trafficking.

it’s all a matter of what is written and what is not. somehow the lack of necessity underlines the trivial nature of the book’s contents.

but it must not be rewritten, and it must not be rebound. or there will be new slaves to replace the old. repetition is found in re-creation, and it must all be destroyed to the last letter.