tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-180749512011-04-21T12:26:53.689-07:00by Daniel FeinbergAnoreply@blogger.comBlogger11100tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18074951.post-1129797876816477772005-10-20T01:43:00.000-07:002005-10-20T01:44:36.820-07:00.<br /><br /><br /><br />After her bullets tore through my pharynx I found a job at an art gallery.<br />I took respite in minimalism because it seemed both otherworldly and obvious.<br />One sculptor painted a tank white and left it running in the small room where I worked. <br />She came to see this piece with her new German-influenced noise band <br /><br />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<br />a position as a drive-thru clerk at a chain restaurant off the highway<br />because, as the manager said, “my voice was right.” A few months later and a familiar<br /><br />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,<br />dressed in children’s underwear and Indian headdresses. Youth, she assumed, like love,<br />would counterpoint the rational war-makers by celebrating the private and immaculate<br /><br />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<div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/18074951-112979787681647777?l=crushpoems6.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Anoreply@blogger.com0