Published by Ursus Americanus


When our landscape is all empty plastics, data-thievery, trashed bodies of oil barons, candy bars and Suboxone, the idea of living itself becomes revolutionary, if not Magickal. Misrule could be a response to Joyelle McSweeney’s The Necropastoral, an embodiment of the philosophical cautions of Jean Baudrillard, or a final, desperate death-posture against the oppositional currents of American capitalism. Tedesco’s poems are slippery and strong, maneuvering our nightmarish infrastructure with satire and fatalism. Misrule is honest about the impossibility of survival, cutting open space for criticism and humor in the face of certain death.

“Clouds dream the dawn
Do you: your newspaper morning
Fly them through the choking park

Shine the word and leave
the bears standing bright, bewildered
under today’s high: an astral outlet

My eyes receive transmission aboard the dream
They like to hide behind time

Get me the words in the fields
around the tower wilding
cross electrical climb”
The bears dream of answering telephones
light going up, spreading stir
starry America of the pastel desert
the fantasy of power ablaze
power crusted, blowing
coming soon
choking on the velvet horizon
a dust we can reach”


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