Thursday, March 1, 2018

1 March 2018

I want to write an honest sentence. Somewhere in Pennsylvania, men and women embrace AR-15s, wear golden Burger King crowns as they renew their vows. A white dress signifies lack of wound, virginity in the anthropocene. The building where a massacre unfolded will be torn down, boost to the local economy. Doing and undoing participate in the same dance, making harm in order to unmake mortar, as if to replace the building were to take away its history. (My mother asked where the Bastille was, and someone pointed to the ground.) I wonder about the flowers left on H3 beside the drop. When a woman at the retirement home said none of the windows opened, another--an Englishwoman with a French name--muttered, “they don't want us committing suicide.” Her name means “flower." I saw a young man on the shoulder at that spot, his eyes broken, but I can't read words written on the pole in black marker. To wound is to make blossom; the exit from an AR-15 is the size of an orange. I take this gun to be my legally wedded spouse. I take it in my bed and perform erotic feats, nuzzling it as it warms to my touch. The spawn of my gun will have trigger finger and a perpetually open mouth. It will suck my teat until I run out of magazines, then point its tiny head at me and explode. What a sicko.

--1 March 2018

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