and forces the Bay Bridge into my mouth and
down my throat. I remember how happy I was the
last time, my jaw nearly torn in two, that feeling
that I’d so helped my countrymen out of their
beds and onto the battlefield. There’s no melodic
metaphor that could bring us an ounce of justice.
He tried suggesting we fit together better than must
ard and ketchup, but I hate ketchup, suggested am
munition and gunpowder instead. No complicit
benzo bar could ever put me more at east than the
knowledge that our bold actions—laden with high-
minded intent—that the fruits of this war would provide
confidence and nourishment to our kind for generations.
