poem: the battle of

again again again and how
in muddy, half-trudged steps
regains the hold, the men
fall— down—
and i cannot complain.
i have instead disorder,
mindhell sparks, all orange-pill
contained. once, they
died in droves and now
i die alone, on the upstairs
bed my face against
the shrills. you must know:
he is not returning: he
is not worth attention,
deflection, call it
crush— in the sand,
the military-splay, and
sadistically within.
and yet we all return:
televised war, the most
narcissistic metaphor,
and i— am fine i will
cry tonight, but not because
my brother or son has died,
or returned home, missing
legs, arms but still alive.
the drama is (instead)
insular: he is he is
and all his friends doomsday
hierarchy; i am not
good enough
for him, for them.

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