Crush Poem #6


After her bullets tore through my pharynx I found a job at an art gallery.
I took respite in minimalism because it seemed both otherworldly and obvious.
One sculptor painted a tank white and left it running in the small room where I worked.
She came to see this piece with her new German-influenced noise band

commented on the romanticizing of the militaristic as a subversive reiteration against brutality. I coughed. I quit three weeks later, embarrassed that I survived and found
a position as a drive-thru clerk at a chain restaurant off the highway
because, as the manager said, “my voice was right.” A few months later and a familiar

sneer ordered fries in a isn’t this ironic that someone like me uses drive-thru way. She pulled up in her van with a new Dadaist-inspired free-folk collective,
dressed in children’s underwear and Indian headdresses. Youth, she assumed, like love,
would counterpoint the rational war-makers by celebrating the private and immaculate

innocence of abstention. Reflected in her striped Kevlar I saw my bloodshot eyes, my plastic voice box , my shallow moat. Treason is a work of art. Treason is is is is

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