5:58

The faux umlauts of ironic affectation known well to sons and daughters of accountants and mechanics alike in the long late shadows cast by the Harley parked at the end of the century. To look them up, we must look down, as looking up without regard for subject or object is to meet the ceiling or lose it among clouds or the face of a lover or the canopy of leaves, vines and moss-draped branches here in this, our jungle redoubt. Slap a cassette in the boom box and listen through the hiss for hair metal under erasure. In the medic shack on the makeshift table where we cut the shrapnel from your daughter’s back you’ll find a stack of Hit Parader and Circus magazines ca. 1980-85, well-thumbed by comrades in arms who, in their ample spare time (this war more a business of waiting than even the last war) have formed karaoke glam bands who play village festivals and camp celebrations whenever this, our arduous American insurgency, permits. We shall restore the order of old, though restoration may be notional only, we shall execute our concept contingency upon contingency until the capital earth crumples and we return to the factories to rage and burn in effigy those original loss leaders that brought us here in the night so long ago, before we had a chance to really talk.